The Penny Green series Box Set

by Emily Organ

  “No, don’t say that!” said Eliza, her eyes wide. “I can’t bear to think that the killer may still be out there!”

  “I’m probably overthinking it a little. Nicholls is probably the right man,” I said hurriedly, feeling the need to reassure her.

  “There’s rather a lot of chatter coming from downstairs. Cook has a loud voice,” said Eliza.

  She got up and rang the bell for the maid.

  “Did I tell you, Penelope, that my neighbour Mrs Kershaw attended Mr Turner’s funeral and said that it was a scene of chaos with the two men getting arrested just before the ceremony!”

  “It can’t have been pleasant for Mr Turner’s widow, and Winston’s mother Martha is particularly upset.”

  “She would be, wouldn’t she? Nobody wants their son to be going around murdering people. It must be extremely difficult to accept.”

  “How did your neighbour know Mr Turner?”

  “She’s a philanthropist and so was he, by all accounts. He took a keen interest in helping fallen women in the slums.”

  “Yes, I heard that his interests lay in that area.”

  “Where has the maid got to? They’re not usually chattering like this. Do help yourself to another cake. Have you finished reading all of Father’s papers yet?”

  “Not quite. I’m worried about what else I might discover about him.”

  “I shouldn’t think there is anything else upsetting in there. You must remind yourself of the circumstances in which he found himself. It was perhaps the only option left open to him when the natives had been firing arrows at him day after day.”

  “He could have left and gone somewhere else.”

  “Perhaps, but he could hardly have got out of there quickly when the only means of transport was either by canoe, by mule or on foot. You forget how spoilt we are with our roads and railways.”

  I sighed. “I suppose I shall return to the work before long. Although my research in the reading room will be rather tricky from this point onwards as the clerk who was helping me paid me a compliment and now the situation between us feels rather awkward.”

  “He propositioned you in the reading room?” Eliza’s cup stalled between her saucer and mouth.

  “Not quite. It was merely a small compliment, and then he ran off afterwards as if he were embarrassed.”

  “You must be extremely flattered, Penelope. It has been a long time since anyone propositioned me.”

  “You should come and work in the reading room with me.”

  “I should! And what is the reading room clerk like?”

  “He’s quite pleasant.”

  “Perhaps you should find the opportunity to get to know him a little better. He may even distract you from the inspector!”

  “I don’t require any distractions from Inspector Blakely. He is now very busy preparing for the trial of a notorious murderer and I am very busy with my work. In fact, I haven’t seen him for some time. About four days, in fact.”

  Eliza laughed. “Of course! So long now that you’ve probably almost forgotten about him.”

  The maid came into the room.

  “Ah, there you are Florrie. What’s all the noise in aid of? Has something happened with Cook?”

  The girl fidgeted with her apron.

  “It’s terrible news again, Mrs Billington-Grieg. There’s been another murder in St Giles’ Rookery.”

  Chapter 45

  Tower Street was filled with people and fog. I battled my way through the crowd and found myself at a junction with a narrow street.

  “What’s this place called?” I asked a girl in a shabby shawl.

  “Lumber Court.”

  “Press!” I called out. “Let me through please!” I squeezed along the street, which was a row of tumbledown rag shops and second-hand furniture stores. Old garments had been hung outside the windows and piled up on lop-sided tables. I made my way to the first constable I could see and introduced myself as a reporter.

  “Who’s the victim?” I asked.

  “Mr O’Donoghue. He was found inside his shop with his throat cut.”

  “Reuben?”

  I stared at the constable’s young face, unable to believe what he had just told me.

  “Reuben O’Donoghue? The tall Irishman?”

  “You knew him?”

  “Yes.” For a moment, the noise of the crowd receded. I stood rooted to the spot as people bustled around me.

  “How?” I said to myself.

  The door of a shop opened nearby and out stepped Chief Inspector Basil Cullen, James’ superior at Scotland Yard.

  “Inspector Cullen!” I called out.

  “Miss Green.” He gave me a solemn nod.

  He was a tall, wide man with a thick grey moustache and a bulbous nose. The two of us had disagreed in the past, most recently during the Lizzie Dixie case.

  “Inspector Blakely is delayed,” he added, pre-empting my question.

  “That’s unlike James.”

  I took my notebook and pencil from my bag and wondered what could have happened to him.

  Did he know yet that Reuben had been murdered?

  A reporter from the News of the World joined us.

  “What can you tell us, Inspector?” he barked.

  “It’s an exact copy of the pawnbroker’s murder,” said Cullen. “Chloroform has been used once again. We found a rag soaked in it next to Reuben’s body. He was a large man, and our killer seems to have lain in wait for him and used chloroform to subdue him before cutting his throat.”

  I felt nauseous.

  “The police surgeon thinks the time of death was at about eight o’clock yesterday evening,” continued Cullen. “The shopkeepers in Lumber Court became aware that something was wrong when Mr O’Donoghue failed to open his shop this morning. We gained entry to the premises at two o’clock this afternoon. E Division is speaking to neighbouring shopkeepers and people who were in the area at the time.”

  “So Winston Nicholls is innocent?” asked the reporter.

  “It is too early to speculate.”

  I removed my gloves, took down some notes and tried to think of more questions to ask Cullen while I had his attention. My mind felt exhausted as I tried to accept what had happened.

  Why Reuben? And if neither he nor Winston Nicholls was the murderer, then who was?

  “Who do you think Adam de Vries is, Inspector Cullen? How is he getting away with this?” I asked.

  “If I knew that I wouldn’t be standing here now,” the inspector retorted with an exasperated sigh.

  “We’ve received more witness accounts describing the masked man,” said Inspector Fenton, who had just arrived with Inspector Pilkington.

  “He’s got nothing to do with it!” came an irate shout from someone behind me.

  I turned to see the angry face of a reporter from The Times.

  “The masked man is a figment of the imagination!” he bellowed. “It’s about time you stopped looking for him and did something useful! How many more murders can we endure? If the Home Secretary has an ounce of common sense, he’ll have every detective in Scotland Yard summarily dismissed! The investigation into this case has been an act of folly from start to finish!”

  “What are you actually doing to catch this killer, Inspector?” called out the reporter from the News of the World.

  I put my notebook in my bag and slipped away to avoid the shouting.

  I had almost battled my way out of Lumber Court when I heard someone calling my name. Looking around me, I caught sight of James in his bowler hat. I stayed where I was as he pushed past people to reach me. His suit and tie were black.

  “How are you, Penny?”

  “Not very well. Did you know that it’s Reuben this time?”

  Something about the caring glance James gave me caused the tears to spill down my cheeks. Flustered, I rummaged about in my bag for a handkerchief, but I could barely see a thing through my tears.

  “Here, have mine,” said Jame
s, taking off his gloves and handing me a pale blue silk handkerchief. “I brought a spare with me.”

  I thanked him, removed my spectacles and wiped my face. The handkerchief was scented with his cologne.

  “You’re wearing black,” I said. “You look like you’ve been to another funeral.”

  “I have. My grandfather’s.”

  “Oh dear.” Fresh tears sprung into my eyes. “I’m so sorry, James.”

  He took my hand gently in his. “Please don’t be sad, Penny. He led a long and happy life. He was prepared for his death and, although his passing has left us desolate, we were also prepared for it, which is far more than can be said for the poor unfortunate souls who have had their lives taken by this dreadful killer.”

  “I’ve just spoken to Cullen. He’s at the shop with Fenton and Pilkington.”

  “Well, it sounds as though there are enough detectives there for the time being. Let’s get out of this crowd and find a more peaceful spot where we can give this terrible business some thought.”

  He let go of my hand and I followed him out of Lumber Court and Tower Street. We crossed the road and came to a standstill outside Aldridge’s Horse Bazaar.

  “I was beginning to believe that Reuben was the murderer,” I said as we watched a gingerbread seller making a brisk trade among the onlookers. “People had spoken of him being behind the murders for so long. And the more thought I gave to Nicholls, the more I struggled to understand what his motive might have been.”

  “I’ve had a difficult time trying to gather evidence for Nicholls’ trial.”

  “But it wasn’t Reuben, was it? It must be Ed Keller, mustn’t it?”

  James took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to me.

  “This arrived at the Yard yesterday,” he said, “but it sat unnoticed for the rest of the day. Nobody was on the lookout for any more letters as we thought we already had our man.”

  I unfolded the letter and read the now familiar handwriting.

  Poor Mr Turner. Couldn’t his loved ones have been allowed to grieve in peace? For all your hasty work, inspector, it seems you have the wrong man. Wasn’t Mr O’Donoghue also a suspect once? I think another visit to St Giles is in order.

  Adam D.V.

  “Who is he?” I heard anger in my voice.

  “I don’t think Ed Keller is literate enough to write letters like these. We’re looking for an educated man and I think it’s time we visited Hugo Hawkins,” said James. “An uneasy glance passed between him and Reuben O’Donoghue at Mr Turner’s funeral. Did you notice it when you said a brief hello to Reuben? You were the only person among us whom he greeted. He glared at me and the look he gave Hawkins was one of utter contempt.”

  Chapter 46

  Away from Lumber Court, the foggy streets were eerily quiet as James and I walked toward the chapel on Neal Street. We saw constables making enquiries at doors, but few other people were milling about.

  “Hugo can’t be the murderer, can he? I can’t imagine him murdering anyone,” I said.

  “Because he’s a missionary?”

  “It’s partly that, I suppose. But he helps people around here. He serves them soup on a cold day and he saved me from trouble once.”

  “You mentioned that on the funeral train, Penny, but you didn’t elaborate. In what way did he help?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I don’t believe it’s nothing, because you have mentioned it twice now. What happened?”

  “It was when I went to see Ed Keller. He tried to attack me.”

  James stopped and stared at me. “What did he do?”

  “I don’t like to dwell on the details.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No, I was completely unharmed, and that was because the missionaries heard me shout out and came to rescue me.”

  “I’ll have him arrested again.”

  “There’s no need. It was entirely my fault. I shouldn’t have put myself at risk like that.”

  “It’s not your fault! Have you been blaming yourself ever since the incident happened?”

  “No.”

  “You have, haven’t you?” James’ eyes searched mine.

  “Perhaps I have.”

  “I’ll get him once we’ve finished with Hugo. Presumably there were witnesses?”

  “Yes, the missionaries. And all those boys he has down there at King’s Head Yard.”

  “I could wring his neck,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Shall we go and speak to Hugo now?”

  We walked on and reached the door of the chapel a few moments later.

  “I picked up my revolver on the way here,” said James, patting where it sat in the holster beneath his overcoat and jacket.

  He pulled open the door of the chapel and we stepped into the candlelit gloom. Tendrils of fog had found their way inside and snaked around the legs of the chairs arranged neatly before the altar.

  “There’s no one here,” I whispered.

  “Hello!” James called out. “Mr Hawkins?”

  The silence made me uneasy. Having visited the place before, I had grown accustomed to being greeted by the missionaries and seeing other people here. It was the first time I had seen the chapel empty.

  “I suppose they’re all in Lumber Court,” I said, feeling a growing sense of unease.

  “I think there’s someone over there,” said James.

  “Where?” My breathing was quick and shallow.

  “He’s sitting in front of the altar.”

  I looked in the direction James was pointing toward and saw the figure of a man seated in one of the chairs.

  “If there’s someone here, why didn’t he answer us?”

  James withdrew his revolver from its holster and together we walked down the aisle toward the altar. The figure in the chair didn’t stir. He was wearing a dark hat and dark clothing.

  “Hello?” James said softly as we drew level with him.

  The man turned his head slowly towards us.

  “Hugo?”

  The missionary gave us a weak smile.

  “I wondered when you’d come.” He glanced at the revolver in James’ hand. “There’s no need for the gun, Inspector. I won’t do you any harm.”

  I could see that James was considering whether to put the revolver back into its holster. He decided to keep it in his hand.

  “Why didn’t you answer us, Hugo?” I asked. “We called out for you when we came in.”

  “Did you? I didn’t hear you.” His close-set eyes were languorous and his head nodded slightly, as if he were sleepy.

  “What do you know about Reuben O’Donoghue?” James asked.

  “I know he thinks I stole some money.”

  “And did you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You do realise that Reuben is dead?”

  “Is he? Oh dear.”

  He turned to look at the altar, an odd half-smile lit up by the flickering candles. His lack of remorse surprised me.

  “He’s not usually like this,” I whispered to James. “Perhaps he’s drunk, or maybe he’s taken opium.”

  “It’s all rather strange,” he whispered to me.

  Then he spoke to Hugo. “Were you in Lumber Court last night, Mr Hawkins?”

  The missionary looked up at us again, sleepy-eyed. “No.”

  Then he winced slightly and drew a hand up to his chest. I looked down at his hand and had to stifle a shriek.

  “Look!” I hissed. “Look at his hand!”

  It was covered in blood.

  Then I looked down and saw that his trouser leg appeared wet. All around his right boot was a dark pool of blood, which was slowly spreading across the stone floor.

  “Mr Hawkins, you’re hurt!” exclaimed James, putting his revolver back in its holster. He bent down next to him. “You’re bleeding! What happened?”

  “Leave me, I’m fine.”

  “We’re not going anywhere.”
/>   James parted the missionary’s jacket. His dark shirt was soaked with blood and the fabric was torn where I guessed a knife had struck him. His chest heaved with laboured, uneven breaths.

  “We need something we can use as a bandage,” said James.

  “Have my scarf,” I said, pulling it off and handing it over to him.

  Hugo’s eyelids were heavy as James tried to wrap my scarf around his chest. It wasn’t long enough to be of any great use.

  “Who did this to you, Hugo?” asked James.

  “It was a mistake. He didn’t mean to.”

  “Who?”

  “He only did it because he loves me.”

  “I’ll go and find a doctor,” I said.

  I ran out of the chapel and began calling at doors along Neal Street. Eventually, I found a woman who knew where a doctor lived and told me she would summon him. I ran back to the chapel, where a few people had gathered as word spread about the injured man.

  Inside the chapel, James had placed his overcoat on the stone floor and helped Hugo lie down on it. My scarf was soaked with blood and I wasn’t sure that a doctor would be able to do anything to save the missionary.

  “Has he told you who attacked him?” I asked James.

  “No, and I think we’re losing him. Can you hear me, Hugo?”

  The missionary’s face was pale and his eyes were closed. Bubbles of blood were collecting across his lips.

  “Hugo?” I knelt down by his head. “Hugo, who attacked you? Where’s David? Did David hurt you?”

  At the mention of David’s name, the missionary opened his eyes. “He didn’t mean to do it. I was trying to stop him.” His voice was quiet and breathless.

  “Stop him from doing what?”

  “Going after Martha.”

  “Martha? Why Martha?” I asked, looking up at James, who was listening, wide-eyed.

  “I told him there couldn’t be any more.”

  “Did David kill Reuben?”

  “Reuben accused me of stealing some money.”