The Penny Green series Box Set

by Emily Organ

  He looked down at the spectacles in my hand. “Oh dear! Your glasses are broken.”

  “They can be repaired. I’m so pleased to see that you are safe,” I said.

  His eyes moved between my long, unpinned hair and my face, and I realised that he hadn’t seen me without my spectacles on many occasions.

  “You took quite a tumble,” he said softly.

  “I couldn’t bear the wait to find out whether you were safe.”

  We held each other’s gaze.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m in a complete mess. I need to smarten myself up. And Edgar’s got your hat, by the way.”

  I glanced over James’ shoulder and saw someone walking towards us.

  “We’re in trouble,” I said, watching the scowling station master as he approached us.

  “I’m Inspector Blakely of Scotland Yard!” James announced before the station master could reach us. “I’m here on police business. I believe there to be a fugitive inside that coffin carriage.”

  I hoped he was right, otherwise our actions would seem rather foolish.

  A door in the coffin carriage opened and a railway man stepped out. James pushed past him and clambered inside. Meanwhile, several men gathered close by and I realised they were the undercover constables. The other mourners disembarked from the train and made their way into the refreshment room on the platform. I hoped they would be undisturbed by the arrest of Nicholls.

  Two men in dark suits began unbolting the main doors of the carriage to bring the coffin out.

  “Stop that man!” cried James.

  Someone had jumped down from the door by which James had entered. Winston Nicholls had been flushed out. He paused on the platform, glanced at the crowd by the refreshment rooms, then took off in the opposite direction along the platform towards the open green of the cemetery.

  James and the constables followed and I was impressed to see the missionaries, Hugo and David, join them. As I watched the men recede, I became aware of another man stepping out of the coffin carriage. He was unmistakable in his pork pie hat.

  It was Tom Clifford.

  He looked at me and then ran towards the refreshment room.

  “Stop!” I called out.

  I chased after him and managed to grab at the tail of his jacket. He spun round angrily and tried to pull away.

  “What on earth do you think you’re doing, Miss Green? And why do you look like some sort of harpy?”

  “What are you doing consorting with a criminal?”

  “Get off my jacket!”

  “Not until you tell me what you’re up to!”

  I hung on as tightly as I possibly could.

  “In a stew, Miss Green?” said a voice that made my skin crawl.

  Ed Keller grabbed Tom by the arm.

  “We’ll ’old ’im ’ere till the coppers get back with ’is mate, shall we? What allurin’ ’air yer ’ave, Miss Green.”

  Tom tried to pull his arm away from Ed, but he didn’t try too hard. By the look in the reporter’s eye, he also was fearful of the Earl.

  I stepped back from Ed Keller and tried to find the loose pins in my hair. “What were you doing in the coffin carriage with Winston Nicholls, Tom?” I asked as I tidied my hair.

  “None of your business,” said Tom. “And I’m not getting arrested because I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  Despite James’ wish to not disturb the mourners, a crowd had gathered on the platform to watch the proceedings. Among them I could see Martha’s large hat, but I didn’t dare catch her eye.

  We didn’t have long to wait before James returned with the constables, the missionaries and a slump-shouldered Winston Nicholls wearing handcuffs.

  “Well done, Penny,” said James breathlessly. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead. “I didn’t expect to find the two of them in there!”

  “You should thank Ed as well,” I said reluctantly.

  “Glad I could be of hassistance,” said Ed, handing Tom into James’s custody before striding off.

  “Well done for catching hold of Winston,” I said to James.

  “I’ve got David Meares to thank for that. Turns out he’s quite accomplished at running,” said James. “He tackled him to the ground!”

  “I’m very proud of him,” said Hugo with a wide smile.

  A large woman in a flowing black dress and an elaborate hat and veil approached us. “Do you think we can proceed with my husband’s funeral now please, Inspector?”

  “Of course, Mrs Turner. Please accept my deepest regrets and most sincere condolences.”

  Chapter 43

  “This was all carefully planned, of course! Your reporters conspired with Scotland Yard to have my man arrested! This is how you react to falling circulation numbers, is it?” barked Charles Cropper, editor of The Holborn Gazette. He was a tall, hairless man with gold-rimmed spectacles and his long face was red with anger.

  “Our circulation isn’t falling!” Mr Sherman said defensively.

  “Well ours had been nicely increasing until your reporters had mine arrested!”

  “Mr Cropper, you will need to take this up with the Yard,” Mr Sherman replied.

  “Oh, I will, don’t you worry about that. But this is a set-up and I am going to make sure the entire world knows about it!”

  “Mr Cropper, may I ask you to pause for one moment and explain what exactly your reporter was doing in the coffin carriage with a murderer?”

  “He was under the impression that Mr Nicholls was a private detective and the two had been working closely together as you’re well aware. Nicholls told him they had to hide in the carriage because the police were trying to arrest him. It is only now that I, and Mr Clifford, have realised that Nicholls himself was the killer and was attending the funeral of his victim for some macabre reason only he can account for.”

  “It’s an extremely odd thing to do,” said Mr Sherman.

  ‘I accept it was. But there was no need for my man to be arrested too! I blame your staff.”

  “The man brought it upon himself.”

  “He did not!”

  “He was assisting Mr Nicholls in evading arrest,” I said.

  Mr Cropper spun round and glared at me. “You keep out of this!”

  “I’m unable to, I’m afraid. You seem to think I had something to do with it,” I replied.

  Mr Cropper turned back to face Mr Sherman. “The relationship your woman reporter has with that deplorable Blakely character at Scotland Yard is inappropriate! He has given her information about the case which should not be shared outside the police force. You’re no doubt aware that Scotland Yard has a stringent code on how the police conduct themselves with members of the press? I will certainly be reminding the Commissioner about it and requesting that both are dismissed from their posts!”

  “Let’s not forget that the St Giles killer has now been caught,” said Edgar. “Surely you should feel relieved that Londoners can now sleep safely in their beds.”

  “That’s enough from you!” shouted Mr Cropper. “You started all this by stealing my reporter’s story!”

  “It was only about a man selling his fat wife’s corpse.”

  “It doesn’t matter what it was about! You stole it! The Morning Express has flouted every rule of journalism in the book!”

  “That is going a step rather too far,” said Mr Sherman.

  “You don’t deserve to be in business!”

  “Mr Cropper, have you asked yourself what your best reporter was doing consorting with a killer?”

  “He didn’t know the man was a killer, did he?”

  “Didn’t he?”

  “No! Winston Nicholls had proved himself to be a very useful source to my man.”

  “There’s no doubt he had more knowledge about the murders than anyone else.”

  “Exactly! And Clifford wasn’t getting much from the Yard, was he? Everything Blakely knew was being passed on to your woman reporter here.”

 
“My involvement began due to a personal incident,” I said. “The boy who stole my bag was one of Winston Nicholls’ victims.”

  “That must have been set up as well! It was all planned!”

  “How?” I asked incredulously.

  “You have ways and means!” He pointed at me. “You’re a woman. Women are manipulative creatures.”

  Mr Sherman got to his feet and frowned so hard that his bushy eyebrows met.

  “Mr Cropper, you will not stand in my office and insult my staff.”

  “I speak only the truth!”

  “Tom Clifford is the biggest toad there is,” Edgar chipped in.

  “There you go, you see?” Cropper pointed at Edgar this time. “Another example of how unprofessional your journalists are!”

  “Mr Fish, let’s not resort to name-calling,” said Mr Sherman, “it doesn’t help our cause. Mr Cropper, I’ve heard all you have to say. Now, will you please leave my office?”

  “Your newspaper is on the way out, Sherman! It’s had its day. Your readers will desert you when they hear of the manner in which your reporters conduct themselves.”

  “Mr Cropper, please go and discuss Clifford’s arrest with Scotland Yard. My reporters and I have work to do.”

  “Oh, I will all right. Blakely and Green will never work again. I shall see to that!”

  As Mr Cropper marched out of the office, Mr Sherman sighed and sank his head down into his hands.

  “Get out of here, you two, and stay out of trouble. I don’t want to hear any more tales of you jumping out of funeral trains, Miss Green. It’s unbecoming of a lady, and quite frankly it’s embarrassing. I want a report from you as soon as Mr Nicholls appears in front of the magistrates. Fish, I want you back on the General Gordon story again. He’s expected in Khartoum any day now.”

  He dismissed us with a wave of his hand.

  “That was a bit rough from Cropper,” muttered Edgar as we returned to the newsroom. “Cropper’s going to come a cropper himself if he carries on in that manner!”

  He laughed, but I struggled to raise a smile. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the moment at Brookwood Cemetery when Martha had realised that her son was under arrest. She had become unsteady on her feet and had been taken into the refreshment room for a reviving brandy. I felt worried for her; the news had come as a severe blow. She had believed that her son was innocent and I couldn’t imagine how she must be feeling now that he had been taken into custody. I prayed that Martha wouldn’t be targeted by others because her son was a murderer.

  I sought the quiet of the reading room that afternoon. I should have felt happy that the St Giles killer had been caught, but there were too many unanswered questions for me to be fully content that Winston was the murderer.

  What motive did he have for killing each of the victims? Had he really been the man in the mask?

  “How is the book progressing, Miss Green?”

  I looked up to see Mr Edwards smiling down at me. He pushed his sandy hair back out of his eyes.

  “It’s progressing rather slowly. I’ve been somewhat busy in recent days.”

  “Of course! I expect you’ve been reporting on these terrible murders. Isn’t it wonderful news that the man has finally been captured?”

  “It is indeed.”

  “And you’re wearing new spectacles, I see.”

  “Oh, these are old things. I broke my usual pair.”

  “Oh no! How did that happen?”

  I was reluctant to tell him that I had jumped from a moving train. Mr Edwards seemed a sensible type who would be shocked by unladylike behaviour.

  “I sat on them!”

  “Whoops!” He chuckled. “I have done a similar thing myself. Fragile things aren’t they, spectacles? Now, with the St Giles murderer caught, you’ll have more time to work on your father’s book, no doubt.”

  “I suppose I will, yes.”

  “I’m looking forward to reading all about your father.”

  I felt a knot in my stomach. “Oh, it’ll be some time yet before it’s published.”

  “He was clearly a very interesting man. I remember you telling me that some of the specimens he collected are on display in the Natural History department in South Kensington. I visited them last week.”

  “Did you really?”

  “Yes. And he was quite an artist as well, wasn’t he? What beautiful sketches and paintings he made of the plants he had collected. Did you ever watch him while he was painting?”

  “Once or twice. If truth be told, he was away rather a lot.”

  “He must have spent a lot of time travelling, but it was all truly worthwhile. If it hadn’t been for him, we would have no knowledge of the beautiful plants he brought back to England.”

  “He made mistakes as well. He didn’t do everything perfectly.”

  I still hadn’t been able to look at Father’s diaries since I had read his account of the massacre.

  “I’m quite sure he didn’t do everything perfectly. No one’s perfect, are they?” said Mr Edwards.

  “No, they’re not.”

  “Except you, Miss Green.”

  “Me?”

  He gave me a swift bow and walked quickly away.

  I looked back at the book in front of me, but the words seemed to swim on the page and a wave of bashfulness washed over me.

  Chapter 44

  “Martha!” I called up to her window.

  No washing hung from the ropes strung across the courtyard and the washtub remained empty.

  “Martha!”

  “She ain’t comin’,” said Susan, who was stacking up a pile of sorry-looking furs by the privies.

  “Have you seen her recently?” I asked.

  “She ain’t talkin’ to no one.”

  “Martha! Can you hear me?” I called out again.

  A woman’s face appeared at the window below Martha’s.

  “Shut yer noise!”

  “I’m sorry, I’m looking for Martha. Is she here?”

  A man appeared at the woman’s shoulder and stared down at me.

  “Can you tell Martha that Penny Green came looking for her? I want her to know that I’m thinking of her. Will you tell her for me?”

  There was no reply from the couple. I watched Martha’s window for a moment longer and fancied that I saw one of the rags move slightly, but perhaps it had been nothing more than a draught.

  “There you go, you see. You have a modicum of speed now! I told you it would be better on a hill.”

  Eliza jogged along the pavement, her three eldest children running alongside her.

  “Go faster, Auntie Penelope!” they shouted.

  Eliza’s bicycle juddered over the bumps on Kensington Park Road as I perched uncomfortably on a small seat between one large wheel and two smaller wheels, each hand clutching tightly to a steering grip. It was probably unsafe to travel at this speed in the fog, and my fears were confirmed when I suddenly noticed a carriage on the road ahead.

  “How do you stop it?” I called out.

  “No need to stop! You can move past the carriage without any problems!” said Eliza.

  “But I want to stop!”

  “Then slow your pedalling.”

  The pedals seemed to be moving of their own accord and there was enough momentum in them to resist any attempt on the part of my feet to stop their motion. Fortunately, I was wearing one of Eliza’s divided skirts as my knees see-sawed up and down.

  “Slow your pedalling!” said Eliza again, growing breathless as her pace quickened.

  “I’m trying!”

  The rear of the carriage was drawing ever closer.

  “Ellie, it’s not stopping!”

  The carriage was almost upon me and its wheel axle was level with my head. I pictured a dreadful decapitation as Eliza shouted at me.

  “Turn to the right!” she cried.

  I twisted the steering grips to the right with all the strength I could muster and the bicycle swerved to o
ne side of the carriage. I almost lurched into the spinning spokes of the large wheel to my left.

  “Help!” I cried as the bicycle veered across the road and into the path of a man trotting up the road on a large horse. It reared up in fright and the bicycle hit the kerb. There was nothing I could do as I was launched forward onto the pavement.

  “Good gracious!” exclaimed a woman close by as the paving stones came up to meet me. I narrowly avoided hitting the ground with my chin as my hands and arms absorbed the main impact of the fall.

  “That machine shouldn’t be allowed on the road!” shouted the horseman, trying to calm his steed.

  Within a few moments, Eliza and her children had gathered around me.

  “Penelope, you haven’t damaged your arm again, have you?”

  “No, Ellie, I’m fine, thank you. Just a few bruises.” I got up and dusted myself off. “What fun! It’s about time I bought myself one of these marvellous contraptions.”

  I recovered from the excitement of the bicycle ride with a cup of tea back in Eliza’s drawing room.

  “Mother’s disappointed that she didn’t get to see her grandchildren,” said my sister. “We were all packed and ready to depart for Derbyshire the following day when the news spread that the killer had been arrested. Excellent work on the part of your inspector!”

  “I think everyone’s extremely relieved.”

  “Of course they are! It was a terribly worrying business. Has James worked out why the man chose to murder so many people?”

  “The theory is that he argued with each of them over one thing or another, and he carried out the murders as some form of revenge. In fact, the more I think about Winston Nicholls the more I struggle to understand what his real motive for murder might be. If the reason stemmed from an argument, I can think of plenty of people in St Giles who have fallen out with one another. Reuben O’Donoghue, for example. He helped me when Jack took my bag, but I saw him arguing with Mr Turner and Edgar told me that he had also argued with the missionary Hugo Hawkins. And even though he had an alibi at the time of Jack’s murder, there is still a chance that he could have attacked the boy and persuaded someone to lie for him. He’s a charming man, but by all accounts he’s capable of violence. The more I think about it, the more I am persuaded that he’s a more likely suspect than Winston Nicholls.”