The Penny Green series Box Set

by Emily Organ

  “If she did write the note, why should she say she was sorry?” asked James.

  “For taking her own life, one would presume,” said Mrs Glenville. “It’s a sinful act.”

  “And perhaps she meant to apologise for causing more upset within a grieving household?” added Mrs Craughton. “It is a rather selfish act, if you ask me.”

  “But it’s also terribly tragic, and another death which could have been avoided,” said James.

  “Not if she was determined to do it,” Jane argued.

  James sighed. “Well, thank you everyone for your time this morning. Inspector Trotter and I will need to speak to each of you in turn—”

  “Not again!” Mrs Glenville cried out.

  “I apologise, Madam, but when someone dies in suspicious circumstances we must do our best to investigate as thoroughly as possible.”

  “But it’s not at all suspicious!” said Jane. “She threw herself down the stairwell!”

  “We will conduct our interviews as quickly as possible, Miss Jane.”

  Mr Glenville stood to his feet and glowered at James. “There will be no more of your darned interviews for the time being, Blakely. I’m sick and tired of them.”

  He turned to face me, and I didn’t like the darkness I saw in his eyes.

  “They say that in many cases the person who found the body is the one who is responsible.”

  He spoke so calmly and quietly that I could barely believe what I was hearing.

  Everyone turned to stare at me.

  “Mr Glenville, no,” I said. “I only ran out when I heard—”

  “Yes, I’m sure you did. But we only have your word for it, don’t we, Miss Green?”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but stopped when I realised what he had called me.

  My secret was out.

  “Miss Parker, you mean,” James said in an attempt to correct him.

  “Parker, eh?” Mr Glenville spun round to glare at him. “You really think so, do you, Blakely?”

  The tension in the room had become unbearable.

  “Did you know, Blakely, that this woman is a news reporter?” Mr Glenville continued.

  “I must say that I wasn’t aware of this at all, Mr Glenville. A news reporter, you say?”

  Glenville’s dark eyes narrowed. “Are you certain you didn’t know, Blakely? If you were a half-decent detective you’d have seen through her by now. And you too, Trotter.”

  Inspector Trotter appeared to have decided that it was best to say nothing at all.

  “A news reporter posing as a maid,” said Mr Glenville, turning back to face me. “And to think that I trusted you.” His voice remained low. There was more sadness than anger in it.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I began. “It was well intentioned, I promise—”

  “Spinning a web of lies while you live and work under my roof is well intentioned, is it, Miss Green? Stealing my own belongings from my desk is well intentioned?”

  He pulled the notebook from the pocket of his jacket and held it up for all to see. I heard gasps from around the room.

  “Mr Glenville,” I pleaded. “I can understand why you are angry. If I can just explain—”

  “There’s nothing to explain, Miss Green,” he replied. His lower lip trembled slightly, then he turned his back on me. “If you’re still in my house five minutes from now I shall summon the police!”

  “But we are the police, sir,” said James.

  “That may be the case, but either you’re so inept at your job that you failed to spot who this woman truly was, or you colluded with her. Either way, you’re not fit to run the investigation into my daughter’s death,” said Mr Glenville. “I want the both of you out of my home immediately. I’ll call in some detectives who actually know what they’re doing. And I’m sure they’ll be extremely interested to speak to you about poor, unfortunate Maisie, Miss Green.”

  Hot tears pricked the backs of my eyes. I glanced at Mrs Glenville but was unable to discern her reaction beneath her veil. I wanted to apologise again and explain my behaviour, but I could see that Mr Glenville had no wish to hear any more. I felt Mrs Craughton’s fearsome gaze upon me, so I took pains not to look at her.

  “Of course, Mr Glenville,” said James convivially. “It’s a great shame you no longer wish us to find your daughter’s killer, but I feel certain my superior at the yard will continue the work we have begun. As this is a house of mourning, I have no wish to cause any further upset. Shall I ask Chief Inspector Cullen to call round later today?”

  Mr Glenville nodded. “I want to catch my daughter’s killer. This Cullen chap needs to find him before we hold her funeral next week.”

  Chapter 38

  I sat with James and Inspector Trotter in the restaurant of the Carlingford Hotel on Kensington Road. It was a small, comfortable place, and the white tablecloths gleamed brightly in the morning sunshine, which came flooding through the paned window.

  Inspector Trotter tucked into his breakfast of mutton chops, but I could muster no appetite. Instead, I sipped at my coffee and watched James spread marmalade onto his toast. I still wore my black maid’s uniform, and my trunk was upright on the floor beside my chair.

  “I didn’t have the chance to tell you that someone found the key to my trunk and discovered my true identity last night,” I said.

  “I suppose you were bound to be found out at some stage. You lasted a decent length of time,” said James, poking about in the marmalade pot with his knife. “Look on the bright side, Penny. At least you’ve escaped the house!”

  “I have.” I breathed deeply and tried to enjoy the sense of freedom. “Although Mr Glenville is extremely upset with me, isn’t he?”

  “He’s upset with all three of us,” said James. “But please don’t worry, Penny. You did everything we asked of you.”

  I removed my spectacles and wiped my eyes with my handkerchief. I felt a lump in my throat.

  “Poor Maisie. I can’t stop thinking about her,” I said. “You were right, James. She was in danger. Did you see the bottle of laudanum next to her note?”

  “Yes, I spotted that. It was empty.”

  “I wish I could understand what has happened. How on earth are we going to find out what befell Sophia and Maisie now? It feels as though I’ve thrown everything away. I was careless. I should never have taken that book. I was going to give it to you as part of your investigation on behalf of Mr Conway. But when Sophia died I forgot all about it. I’ve been so foolish.”

  “I have a feeling that someone suspected you weren’t who you said you were right from the start,” said James. “That’s why they continued to search your room. It was only a matter of time before they found the key to your trunk. You did well to stick it out for as long as you did. And you did enough for the investigation, so please don’t worry any more about it. Cullen will do a good job of picking this up with Glenville.”

  He bit into his toast.

  “I hope so. Cullen won’t want my help, though, will he? We’ve had too many disagreements in the past.”

  James laughed. “He doesn’t bear grudges. Now, would you like to cheer yourself up with a slice of toast? I’ll put some marmalade on it for you, if you like?”

  I smiled. “Thank you, James.”

  Inspector Trotter finished off his mutton chops, then wiped his mouth and fingers on the starched serviette.

  “It’s all very well handing over this case to Cullen,” he said. “But where does that leave T Division? I’m supposed to be the chap investigating Miss Glenville’s death.”

  “This is where we can be clever, Trotter,” said James. “We give Glenville the impression that Cullen is now looking after the case, but in reality we continue with our investigations. It won’t be difficult to speak to the Lombards and the Wyndhams again. The only difficulty we have is our inability to look for clues within the Glenville home.”

  “The important thing is that this continues as a joint investigation between T
Division and the Yard.”

  “Absolutely, Trotter. You have my word.”

  “So what do we do now?” asked Inspector Trotter.

  “Good question,” said James. “We need to formulate a plan.”

  “Did you have any success in finding Betsy’s brother?” I asked.

  I wiped my spectacles with my serviette and put them back on. James passed me a slice of toast and marmalade.

  “Mr John Morrison? Yes, I have,” he said. “I had to promise him my discretion, though. He has rather a lot to hide.”

  “Such as what?”

  “He’s a married man.”

  “What does being married have to do with anything?”

  “He is the man Sophia Glenville had been with the evening you encountered her on the staircase.”

  I almost dropped my toast. “Her secret suitor? Betsy’s brother?”

  “Yes. They were in love. Despite him being married to another woman, who is currently expecting their second child.”

  “What a rat! So, if I understand this correctly, Sophia was good friends with Betsy the maid. And then she began a love affair with Betsy’s brother, John?”

  “Yes. Apparently, they began meeting secretly in the summer of last year.”

  “Did Sophia know he was married?”

  “I believe she did, yes.”

  “And do you think he loved Sophia?”

  “Yes, I’m fairly certain that he did. He seems utterly devastated by her death. According to John, she wanted to elope, but he told her he couldn’t leave his wife.”

  “It sounds as though John Morrison needed to make a decision about which woman he was to remain with,” I said.

  I thought of the dark figure I had seen in the street staring up at the house after Sophia’s death. Had it been him?

  “I assume John Morrison knew of Miss Sophia’s murder before you spoke to him,” I said.

  “Yes. I don’t know where he heard the sad news. Perhaps he read the newspaper reports.”

  “And he’s had to grieve in private. Presumably he has been forced to hide his feelings from his wife. That’s a sad thought. It sounds as though they really did love each other, but he had already married the wrong person. What a terrible thing to happen.”

  “Indeed.” James held my gaze before distracting himself with another slice of toast.

  “That Glenville fellow is slippery,” Inspector Trotter interjected. “I know he’s behind all this, yet we can’t find anything on him!”

  “Perhaps because he didn’t do it,” I suggested.

  “He has to be the culprit though, doesn’t he, Blakely?” said Inspector Trotter, pouring more coffee into his cup. “There’s something about him. Or do you think he’s ‘’armless’?”

  Inspector Trotter laughed at his own quip. “Did you get what I meant there? The fellow only has one arm!”

  “I found out who the ghost twins are,” I said to James, deliberately ignoring Inspector Trotter’s joke.

  “Who are they?”

  “Uncles of Mrs Glenville. They were called Broderick and Snowdon Noel-Johnstone, but they had interesting nicknames.”

  I explained about the piece of paper I had found secreted between the books the previous day, and he listened with interest.

  “And Mrs Craughton has the piece of paper now?” he asked.

  “Yes. She told me she would find out what it referred to, but she had neither the time nor inclination to tell me. I asked Maurice Glenville in the end.”

  “So why would the ghost twins’ nicknames be written on a piece of paper and hidden between two books?” said James. “It has to be a message, doesn’t it?”

  “It didn’t look like much of a message.”

  “Whatever it was, I can imagine the housekeeper has destroyed it by now,” said James. “She seems the type to do that sort of thing.”

  Chapter 39

  I was overjoyed to see Tiger again, although she pretended not to notice me. I knew it was her means of punishing me for having gone away.

  “How did you get on with doing a proper day’s work?” my landlady, Mrs Garnett, asked.

  “It was tiring,” I replied.

  I felt relieved to be home. I could finally be myself again and spread my papers out over the writing desk without worrying that someone would find and read them. I certainly wouldn’t miss the physical work, and I was pleased not to be wearing a maid’s uniform any more. I no longer had to obey orders and I felt independent again. It was a sensation I relished.

  But Maisie’s death overshadowed my joy. I still struggled to believe that it had happened. The events of the previous evening turned over in my mind as I unpacked my belongings. I changed my clothes and remembered that the maid’s mourning uniform belonged to the Glenvilles.

  I would have to return it to them fairly soon. But not too soon.

  That afternoon, I went in to the Morning Express offices. Pleased to be no longer restricted by a uniform, I wore a fitted mauve jacket over a cream silk blouse and a dark blue woollen skirt.

  “Miss Green!” Edgar Fish grinned from ear to ear. “You’ve returned to us!”

  “Thank you, Edgar. You actually seem pleased to see me.”

  “I’m always pleased to see you, Miss Green. We’ve missed you, haven’t we, Frederick?”

  Frederick Potter gave me a nod. “Welcome back, Miss Green.”

  Mr Sherman marched in, slamming the door behind him.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Green. How did you find it?”

  “It was interesting. And rather tragic.”

  “Two deaths while you were there, eh?” said Mr Sherman with a smirk. “Did you bring a curse to the household? Or perhaps you had a hand in it yourself?”

  “I wish I could see the humorous side, Mr Sherman, but it’s been so terribly sad. Inspector Blakely and I—”

  “Blakely? Of course!” interjected Edgar. “That inspector’s never far away from you, is he, Miss Green?”

  “Inspector Blakely and I worked with Inspector Trotter of T Division,” I continued. “We made some progress in the search for Miss Sophia Glenville’s murderer, but now we have no chance of finding the culprit. And the terribly sad death of the maid means there is a great deal of work to do. I suppose I always knew that my time there would be limited, but I hoped we would find the person responsible for Sophia’s death. Sadly, we didn’t. And we made no progress at all with the investigation for Mr Conway.”

  “It’s a shame you were found out,” said Mr Sherman.

  “I wasn’t a very convincing maid, I’m afraid.”

  “Never mind. It’s the first time you’ve worked undercover. Edgar’s an old hand at it, of course. Anyway, Miss Green, you may have been evicted from the Glenville household, but that doesn’t mean you can’t report on the story now that you have returned.”

  “Please don’t ask me to go back there.”

  “I won’t, but do what you can to report on developments. We need to find out whether this maid took her own life, or whether someone caused her some mischief. Is her death linked to the daughter’s, do you think?”

  “I think it must be. Maisie seemed frightened of someone, but I have no idea whom she feared.”

  “Well, keep talking to the police and ensure that they tell you everything they know. Can I have a quick report on the maid’s death by deadline today, please? And you’ll need to get down to the inquest.”

  I sat at the typewriter and began my work.

  Police are trying to establish the facts behind the tragic death of a housemaid at the home of Mr. Alexander Glenville in Hyde Park Gate. Maisie Brown, 14, fell down the stairwell of the servants’ staircase in the early hours of Thursday morning.

  Maisie Brown’s death occurred four days after that of Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Glenville’ daughter, Miss Sophia Glenville, who died from a poisoning incident. Kensington T Division and Scotland Yard are continuing their search for the culprit.

  Mr. Alexander Glenville is the
owner of the Blundell & Co vinegar factory in Vauxhall and the Archdale vinegar factory in Bermondsey.

  I felt a lump in my throat as I worked at the typewriter. The language in the article was impersonal. I had written it as if I’d never known Maisie. But in my mind, I saw the small, freckle-faced girl who had been so cheery and helpful during my first day at the Glenville house. I had never been able to explain to Maisie who I really was, and the guilt I felt at having deceived her weighed heavily in my heart.

  Chapter 40

  The inquest into Maisie’s death was opened and quickly adjourned as the coroner awaited further evidence of what had happened to her on the night she had died. I sat beneath the familiar dome of the reading room and contemplated the task James had ahead of him.

  How would he be able to piece everything together if Mr Glenville wouldn’t allow him inside the house? Would Inspector Cullen be of any assistance at all? I hadn’t found him helpful in the past.

  Meanwhile, my meeting with Mr Fox-Stirling was drawing near and I had to remind myself of my father’s last known location so that I would have the right questions in mind.

  The last letter I received from my father had arrived exactly nine years previously, dated April 1875. The final line had read:

  Tomorrow I plan to ride twenty miles southwest of Bogota to the falls of Tequendama. I have heard much of the orchids and tropical birds there, and am looking forward to the spectacle of the River Funza plunging from a height of five hundred feet. It must be quite a sight to behold!

  I had not received the letter until the May of that year. By the time it arrived, he had already supposedly vanished. His last diary entry had been written at about the same time as the letter. It detailed a walk he had taken around Bogota and a dinner he had eaten with a German merchant. I wrote down a summary of the events I wished to speak to Mr Fox-Stirling about: