The Bermondsey Poisoner

by Emily Organ

“I’m not repeating it. The one where they do things to folk after they’re dead.”

  “An autopsy is sometimes necessary to establish the cause of death.”

  “It’s ungodly.”

  “But necessary.”

  “Says who?”

  “The legal and medical professions. An autopsy confirmed that Thomas Burrell’s death was caused by poisoning. It would otherwise have been assumed that he died of a natural illness, and that no one was to blame for it. But by exhuming—”

  “That’s enough!” Mrs Garnett flung her hands over her ears. “I won’t hear any more of it!”

  “Let’s change the subject, Mrs Garnett.”

  “Thank you.” She removed her hands from her ears and glanced over at Tiger. “That cat has only been in my parlour once this week.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “She hates lemons. I cut two lemons open and put them both in saucers. I put one by the window and one by the door, and now she has no desire to come in.”

  “Poor Tiger.”

  “You don’t feel sorry for me with my sneezing?”

  “Yes, I do. It’s a sad situation for both of you, Mrs Garnett. If only cat and landlady could get along.”

  “Life’s not always so simple, Miss Green. She’s not a bad cat. I quite like her, in fact. But it’s the sneezing that’s the problem. How’s that lovesick librarian doing on his boat to South America, by the way?”

  “Mr Edwards, you mean? I should hope he has arrived there by now. He’s not a librarian any more, and I shouldn’t think he’s lovesick either. He never really was.”

  “Oh, he was.” A wide grin spread across Mrs Garnett’s face. “I remember him coming to the door here under some pretence, using any excuse he could come up with to visit you. I miss him, poor man.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for him, Mrs Garnett. He is no doubt enjoying himself immensely in South America by now.”

  “And now the inspector’s married I don’t suppose there are any potential suitors left.”

  “He’s not married yet, Mrs Garnett.”

  “Is he not?”

  “No.”

  “It seems as though we’ve been waiting for his wedding for years.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “So when is it?”

  “In a week’s time.”

  “A week today?”

  My stomach gave an uncomfortable flip. “Yes.”

  “It’s almost upon us, then. Have you been invited?”

  “No.”

  I felt relieved to be interrupted from this line of conversation by a voice calling up from downstairs.

  “Good mornin’, Mrs Garrrrr-nett!”

  “There’s only one person with a voice that loud,” said my landlady, “and that’s Mrs Wilkinson. Something interesting must have happened.”

  She left my room and made her way downstairs. I followed a little way behind, hoping to eavesdrop. Mrs Wilkinson was often the first person in the vicinity to pass on newsworthy gossip.

  I heard the two ladies talking in the hallway, and when I heard the words Morning Express mentioned I hurried down the wide staircase.

  “Hello, Mrs Wilkinson. Is there any news?” I asked.

  She turned to face me. Mrs Wilkinson was a short, stout woman of around sixty with sharp eyes and artificially darkened hair.

  “There’s been a murder!” she announced gleefully. “A man in Vauxhall, and what’s more he was in the newspaper. Your newspaper!” She grinned, displaying a number of yellow teeth.

  I felt a sudden coldness grip my chest.

  “Who is it?”

  “Taylor, they say. I heard it from a cabbie who’s just driven up from that way.”

  I leaned up against the wall, fearing my knees would give way beneath me.

  “Benjamin Taylor,” I said quietly. “The man I interviewed.”

  “It was in the newspaper, wasn’t it?” said Mrs Wilkinson.

  “The man I was reading about just now?” said Mrs Garnett in a shrill, excitable voice.

  “Yes.” I removed my spectacles and rubbed at my eyes, as if doing so would help me comprehend what had happened.

  “So the man who was poisoned has now been murdered,” continued Mrs Garnett. “The things that are happening in this city these days.” She sucked her lip in dismay. “It’s dreadful. I really should move to Kent.”

  “It’s not much better there,” said Mrs Wilkinson. “They had a murder in Maidstone just the other week. A man had a knife put in his back while he was out buying sausages. In broad daylight.”

  “Someone must have read my piece,” I muttered. “They read the interview and went to see him. But who? I don’t understand.”

  “Come into the parlour and have a sit down, Miss Green,” my landlady suggested. “I can give you a spoonful of Dr Cobbold’s—”

  “Thank you, Mrs Garnett, but no thank you. I must make my way over there.” I turned and ran up the stairs, two at a time, to fetch my carpet bag from my room.

  Chapter 31

  I hailed a cab at the end of Milton Street. The journey to Vauxhall took half an hour, which gave me time to think about my interview with Benjamin Taylor. Could its publication have prompted his death? Had someone read it and felt compelled to silence him?

  The person he had implicated in the interview was Catherine Curran, whom he had referred to as Jane Taylor. Had she travelled back from Kent to track him down?

  My stomach kept turning over as I became increasingly concerned that I was in some way responsible for the poor man’s death.

  We passed Lambeth Workhouse and entered a maze of terraced streets.

  “Are yer wantin’ ter see where this murder’s ’appened?” the cabman called through the hatch in the roof.

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied. “I’m a news reporter!” I added, in an attempt to explain that my interest was not merely morbid curiosity.

  We turned into Tyers Street, which was lined with small terraced houses. It ran for some length until we reached a crowd of onlookers. I paid the cabman and walked up to the narrow three-storey house that appeared to be holding everyone’s interest. I felt my throat tighten as I saw a coffin shell being loaded into a black carriage. It was extremely difficult for me to accept that the coffin contained the body of the same man I had spoken to at The Royal Vauxhall Tavern just two days previously.

  A number of constables held the crowd back as the doors to the coffin carriage were closed and the carriage pulled away.

  I introduced myself to one of the constables. “Who’s in charge here?” I asked him.

  He nodded at the house. “They’re inside.”

  “And the victim is Benjamin Taylor, is that right?”

  “You’ll have to ask the inspector,” he replied. “I ain’t s’posed to be speakin’ to the press.”

  I loitered for a short while, hoping the departure of the carriage meant that the inspector would soon step out of the house, having done all he could at the property.

  “Did you know Mr Taylor?” I asked a man in a flat cap standing nearby. He puffed on a pipe and kept his hands in his pockets.

  “Aye.”

  “For how long?”

  “Two years or so.”

  “Do you know what happened to him?”

  The man shrugged. “Found dead this mornin’, he was.”

  “Do you know how it happened?”

  The man shrugged again and blew out a puff of smoke. “No idea.”

  “Did anyone see or hear anything suspicious either this morning or last night?”

  The man took his pipe out of his mouth and stared at me. “’Ow would I know that?”

  “I just wondered if you’d heard any rumours about what has happened to Mr Taylor.”

  “All I knows is what I’ve told yer.”

  “Thank you.”

  A police officer wearing a chief inspector’s uniform stepped out of the house, and my heart skipped when I saw James following closely b
ehind him. I dashed over to them.

  “Penny,” said James, giving me a subdued smile. I understood that the gravity of the situation prevented any warmer greeting.

  He introduced me to Chief Inspector Austen of Lambeth L Division, who had a large red face and brown whiskers.

  “Do you have any idea what happened to him?” I asked.

  “Little idea yet, I’m afraid,” replied the chief inspector. “He appears to have been taken unwell.”

  “Poison?” I ventured.

  James gave an exasperated sigh.

  “We can’t rule it out. The usual examination will take place, of course, and if he has been poisoned we clearly have a significant problem on our hands. I think it’s obvious these murders are the work of more than one person, but as for who, and how many, I really couldn’t say at the moment.”

  “Was he found this morning?” I asked.

  “Yes, and he was last seen when he arrived home from work at the Doulton Pottery at five o’clock yesterday evening,” said James. “He ate with his landlady and another lodger as usual, and then the landlady went out for the evening. We haven’t found the other lodger yet, but we’re looking for him. The landlady said she returned to the house late last night and all was quiet. When Taylor didn’t make an appearance for breakfast this morning she grew concerned and went to his room. The door was locked, and she had to ask a neighbour to help her force it open. Once inside they found Taylor lying on the bed, quite clearly dead.”

  I shook my head. “I only saw him two days ago. I am struggling to believe it.”

  “Your interview with him was published just yesterday, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. I’m concerned that the murderer might have read the interview and decided that Mr Taylor needed to be silenced!”

  “I’m sure that’s not the case.”

  “But it has to be linked to the fact that he was telling everyone who would listen that he believed Catherine Curran had poisoned him. And she finally has! Somehow she must have returned from Kent and finished the job. We need to find her, James! She must be hiding somewhere near here. And someone must know something they’re not telling us!”

  “You saw the deceased just two days ago, Miss Green?” asked Inspector Austen.

  “Yes. I interviewed him at The Royal Vauxhall Tavern.”

  “In which case you can most likely provide us with some useful testimony.”

  “I don’t know about that. A lot may have happened after I met with him.”

  “All the same, Miss Green, I think you will be a useful person to speak to. I’d like you to come and speak with us at the police station on Lower Kennington Lane.”

  A police sergeant beckoned the chief inspector over and I shook my head in dismay.

  “I feel responsible,” I said to James.

  “How so?”

  “Perhaps if I hadn’t interviewed him for the Morning Express he would not have been targeted.”

  “You can’t blame yourself, Penny. The man told lots of people that he suspected his wife had poisoned him; something we will never be able to prove.”

  “But she achieved it in the end, didn’t she?”

  “We don’t know who has done it, Penny.”

  “But it has to be Catherine, doesn’t it? She was probably disappointed that she hadn’t succeeded in murdering her husband six years ago. She finally finished what she had set out to do, though I don’t understand how she managed to get back from Kent so swiftly.”

  “Orpington isn’t far from here by train,” said James. “But I’m beginning to feel certain now that there is more than one poisoner. We already have Sally under arrest, and she cannot possibly have been involved in Mr Taylor’s death given that she is being held in the House of Detention. Now there is another person involved. It may be Catherine, or it may be someone else.”

  “Perhaps the same person who poisoned Inspector Martin?”

  “No, that could only have been Sally.”

  “It might have been another police officer.”

  James’ face fell. “You don’t think a police officer would do such a thing, do you?”

  “Possibly. Another officer would have been present when Sally was interviewed by Inspector Martin. What about Sergeant Richards?”

  “Oh Penny, that’s ridiculous. He would never do such a thing.”

  “You have convinced yourself of that with other police officers in the past, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember, though I prefer not to. I suppose you’re right, Penny. When a situation like this arises everyone must be considered a suspect.”

  Chief Inspector Austen approached us. “Are you ready, Miss Green?” he asked, gesturing toward a nearby blue police carriage. It had the letters VR and a crown painted in gold on the side.

  “Of course, Inspector.”

  I bade James farewell and climbed into the carriage.

  Chapter 32

  I thought Inspector Austen might ask me about Benjamin Taylor during our short carriage ride to Lower Kennington Lane, but instead he spent the time making copious notes in his notebook. He wasn’t interested in anything I had to say until we were seated at a table in a small interview room within the police station.

  He sat opposite me with a pile of papers between us, and he was accompanied by a young freckle-faced sergeant with wispy auburn whiskers. The sergeant asked me for my name, age and address, painstakingly filling the details in on his form. I began to grow impatient, wishing I could tell them what I knew and then be on my way.

  “You saw Benjamin Taylor on Thursday the fourth of September, is that right?” asked Inspector Austen. He had small, steely eyes set deep into his red face.

  “Yes, that’s right,” I replied.

  “And you instigated this meeting with him because you wished to interview him for your newspaper, the Morning Express?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “At The Royal Vauxhall Tavern.”

  “Who suggested the venue?”

  “Mr Taylor did.”

  The inspector indicated to the sergeant that he should write this down.

  “I take it you both had something to drink while you were there?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask what you had?”

  “I had an East India sherry and Mr Taylor had a mug of beer.”

  “Just the one?”

  “I seem to recall that he had two.”

  “You must have turned a few heads at The Royal Vauxhall Tavern, Miss Green. Ladies such as yourself are not frequently seen in public houses.”

  “My profession takes me to all sorts of places, Inspector, and I have interviewed a fair number of people in pubs and taverns.”

  “Were you aware of having drawn the attention of anyone else in the tavern that day?”

  “Not particularly. I think a few people may have glanced over and been vaguely surprised to see me there, but I’m not aware of anyone making a big fuss about it.”

  “How long did it take you to conduct the interview with Mr Taylor?”

  “About an hour.”

  “Did anyone approach you while you were with him?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone within or outside The Royal Vauxhall Tavern speak to either you or Mr Taylor before, during or after your interview with him?”

  “We spoke to the bar tender, but that was all.”

  “Did you see Mr Taylor acknowledge anyone else during your meeting with him? It might have been a subtle acknowledgement, such as a slight nod of the head or a wink.”

  “No. Why are you asking me all these questions, Inspector? Surely it would be easier for me to make a formal statement? I could even write it down for you if you would like me to. It would save your sergeant here having to do it.”

  “It’s part of his job; don’t you go worrying about him. This case is an extraordinary one, Miss Green, and by asking the right questions I’ll be able to get to the bottom of what has really happ
ened here rather than accepting an embellished version of events.”

  I began to feel wary. “I have no intention of embellishing anything, Inspector. I have been reporting on this case for more than two weeks, and I can assure you that I wish to do everything possible to ensure that the poisoner is caught. My account will be honest and purely based on fact.”

  “I should hope so, Miss Green.”

  More seemingly irrelevant questions followed and then the questioning became quite antagonistic.

  “Did Mr Taylor leave his tankard unattended at any time while you were with him?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Was he sufficiently distracted at any point to allow someone enough time to interfere with his drink?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “It could have been a simple distraction, such as a communication from another person in the public house or Mr Taylor stooping to pick something up which had dropped to the floor.”

  “No, I don’t remember anything of that sort happening.”

  “So it may have happened but you just don’t recall it?”

  “I’m certain that it didn’t happen.”

  “Did you deliberately distract him at any point so that his drink could be interfered with?”

  “No, Inspector! I would never do such a thing!”

  “Did you administer a poison to his drink while he was distracted from it?”

  “No!” My heart began to pound. “Why should I wish to do something like that?” I said, worried that my expression would somehow convey a guilt which wasn’t there. “I was interviewing him for my newspaper, and I have already told you that I cannot recall him being distracted.”

  “There’s no need to raise your voice, Miss Green. I appreciate the fact that these are searching questions, but you will do yourself an injustice if you fail to remain calm while I question you.”

  I felt my blood run cold. “Are you treating me as a suspect, Inspector?”

  “No, Miss Green, but I must ask you some direct questions so that I can be quite certain. I take the same approach with everyone I interview.”

  “There is no need to ask me whether or not I poisoned Mr Taylor. I would never do that to anyone. I wouldn’t even know how to go about it! Your time would be better spent locating Catherine Curran. She is the key suspect in this case, and she must be close by! You need men on the ground searching for her, Inspector.”