The Bermondsey Poisoner

by Emily Organ

  “Indeed. Well, I’m certain your tender-hearted nursing skills will ensure that he makes a quick recovery, Charlotte.” I wondered if she had noticed the tone of irony in my voice as I forced a smile.

  I bid her farewell and descended the steps of James’ home with a heavy heart. I prayed fervently that he hadn’t been poisoned and that he would soon be better again. I also prayed that he wouldn’t permit Charlotte to keep him prisoner in his own home until the day of their marriage. I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing him again until after they were married.

  Our conversation in the Tower Subway had not been fully resolved, and the only comfort I had was that he had kissed me again.

  I called in at the newsroom on my way to Bermondsey.

  “Fifteen percent now, Miss Green,” said Edgar, rubbing his hands together with glee.

  “That’s how much the circulation figures have fallen?” I asked.

  “Exactly right! You’re sharp-minded. Isn’t Miss Green sharp-minded, Potter?”

  “Extremely sharp-minded,” agreed Frederick.

  “Blimpy’s not going to get away with a fifteen percent drop,” continued Edgar. “It’s bound to set Uncle Conway on the war path.”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “My father frequents the same gentleman’s club as Mr Conway,” said Edgar. “I’ve asked him to have a quiet word in the proprietor’s ear.”

  “He’s influential enough, is he?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell you exactly what my father does, but whatever it is he’s a master at string-pulling. Do you remember when he had my reading ticket reinstated at the British Library?”

  “I do remember. That was after you were thrown out for fighting in the reading room.”

  “Tom Clifford started it.”

  “He always does.”

  “That business is all water under the bridge now, and I feel sure that old pater will help out again. Never doubt a Fish, Miss Green.”

  “I’d be foolish to do so, I’m sure,” I replied.

  Pale-faced Mr Childers quietly entered the room.

  “Cholera, Miss Green,” he said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “In Naples. I need four hundred words from you on the subject.”

  “Terrible shame,” said Edgar. “I visited Naples when I did the Grand Tour.”

  “You did the Grand Tour?” asked Frederick.

  “Doesn’t every chap do the Grand Tour?” replied Edgar.

  “Only the chaps with plenty of money and time on their hands,” said Frederick. “Where did you go?”

  “Oh, the usual places. Paris, Geneva, Turin, Venice, Florence, Rome and then Naples, of course. Naples is the traditional terminus, but I hopped over to Sicily and Malta and did a little bit of Greece. Then I travelled back via Vienna, Munich, Dresden and Berlin. Oh, and Innsbruck too, I think. Remind me to tell you about the ladies in Naples next time we’re in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, Potter. I can’t go into detail about it in polite company.”

  “Have you quite finished, Mr Fish?” asked Mr Childers.

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t realise you were still in the room.”

  “Can’t Edgar write the article about Naples?” I asked the editor, mindful of the reporting I needed to do in Bermondsey. “By all accounts he has experience of the city and its peoples.”

  “Female peoples,” added Frederick.

  “Absolutely not!” bellowed Mr Childers. “Your deadline is tomorrow.”

  Chapter 38

  I returned to Bermondsey to find out if there was any news from the interrogation of Catherine Curran. Maggie was leaving the police station as I arrived.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked her.

  “Oh ’ello, Miss Green. It is indeed. Why d’yer ask?”

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “Oh I ’elps out ’ere from time ter time. I does a bit o’ cleanin’ an’ that.”

  “You help at the police station as well as the church?”

  “Yeah, keeps me outta trouble!” She gave me a wink and continued on her way. She wore an apron, but the dress she wore beneath it appeared rather smart for cleaning work.

  Sergeant Richards seemed perplexed when I reached his desk.

  “She’s been here almost a day, but she won’t talk at all. She’s sitting in the cell downstairs refusing to say anything to anyone.”

  “Who has tried speaking to her?”

  “Me, Sergeant Grimes and some of the constables. Inspector Wallis from Blackman Street station in Southwark has also tried. He’s stepped in to help with the case as we’re becoming rather short of men. We’ve lost Inspector Martin and now Inspector Blakely—”

  “You won’t lose him,” I said determinedly. “He’ll be back.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I think you’ve done a fine job of finding Catherine Curran. I hear she was planning to hide out in the caves at Chislehurst.”

  “Yes, we believe so. The men had been concentrating on searching Orpington, but then she caught the eye of a Chislehurst constable while she was walking along the high street there. She was unaccompanied and looking about her as if she were unfamiliar with the place.

  “Toward the end of the afternoon he saw her again, this time loitering near the caves, which is an odd location for a lady to be standing around on her own. She told him she was waiting to meet someone. He replied that he’d heard reports of a woman matching her description who was on the run in Kent, and that his colleagues in nearby Orpington would be particularly interested to meet her. She refused to tell him her name, but she went with him quietly. She’s quite thin and seems to be lacking in nourishment. She was probably too weak and tired to put up much resistance once she was found.”

  “Did she have any belongings with her?”

  “Yes, she was carrying a bag with some clothes in, so there is no doubt that she was on her travels. A search of her person revealed a second-class train ticket from London Bridge station, so we know that she has travelled down to Kent from London in recent days. She was also carrying a significant amount of money on her person; about forty pounds. That’s what you might expect to find on a woman who has recently claimed against a life insurance policy.

  “We’ve shown her the photographs she had taken with her deceased husbands, but she has displayed no emotion. We asked her about Sally Chadwick and she has said nothing. It’s most unusual. I’m beginning to wonder whether she has been rendered mute by the tragedy of losing three husbands. I think her mind has been disturbed by it all. I feel quite sorry for her. She faces the police court later this week on the charge of bigamy, but I don’t think her nerves will stand it.”

  “Might I be permitted to see her?”

  “I don’t think so, Miss Green. You’ll probably start asking inappropriate questions again.”

  “I won’t this time, I promise. And I won’t publish anything from my meeting with her.”

  Sergeant Richards shook his head.

  “Please?” I begged. “As she’s refusing to speak to you, I wonder whether the presence of another woman might help. She may feel quite intimidated at a police station surrounded by men.”

  He sighed. “Very well, though I don’t know why I’m agreeing to it. Perhaps it’s because I know that you won’t leave me alone until I do. And maybe another woman is what she needs to get her talking. But you must be very careful with your line of questioning, Miss Green. And I shall accompany you, of course.”

  “Absolutely fine, Sergeant. Thank you.”

  We walked down to the cells and the gaoler opened the door of the cell that had previously accommodated Sally Chadwick.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs Curran,” said the sergeant. “I’ve brought Miss Penny Green with me this time. She’s a news reporter for the Morning Express. Hopefully you’ll feel a little more comfortable with a lady to talk to.”

  A quick glance at Catherine Curran’s face made me doubt it. Her large, dark eyes stared a
t me coldly from her pale face. Her mood appeared hostile, but she wasn’t at all intimidating. In fact, she looked much younger than her twenty-nine years.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs Curran,” I said, hoping to put her at ease. “Sergeant Richards has just been telling me how you were found in Chislehurst. Were you on your way to see members of your family in Orpington? I’ve heard that’s where you come from.”

  There was no reply.

  “A lot has happened since you’ve been away,” I continued, hoping that she would begin to respond. “You’ll be relieved to hear that someone has confessed to poisoning all of your husbands.” I wondered whether anyone had told her about Benjamin Taylor yet. “You could come to court when she’s there next and see her for yourself. I think you already know her quite well. Her name is Sally Chadwick.”

  Catherine gave me no response, and I wondered what she was thinking.

  “Do you know Sally Chadwick?” I asked.

  There was still no reply.

  “Would you like something to eat?” I asked. “Or drink?”

  Catherine looked away.

  I caught Sergeant Richards’ gaze and sighed.

  “Well, I think I’ll go now, Catherine, unless there’s anything you’d like to tell me. As Sergeant Richards has already explained, I’m a reporter for the Morning Express newspaper. I won’t publish anything you say without your permission, but I thought there might be something you would like people to hear?”

  She looked down at her hands and I wondered whether she had even heard what I had just said to her.

  “Thank you for your time, Catherine. I’ll leave you be for now.”

  I turned to walk out of the cell.

  “I want to go home,” came a timorous voice from behind me.

  I turned to look at her again. Her eyes were damp, and her lower lip quivered as if she were close to tears.

  “I’m sure you do,” I said. “Perhaps a bail agreement could be arranged with Sergeant Richards here.”

  I gave him a hopeful look, but he said nothing.

  The charge of bigamy seemed unnecessary in my mind, having seen how small and vulnerable Catherine looked. Her husbands were all dead and I struggled to imagine that this frightened-looking woman could have done anything to harm them.

  The gaoler closed the door on Catherine and locked it behind him.

  Something still didn’t feel right. Catherine was not what I had expected. I had anticipated a hard look in her eye and an air of defiance or argument in her tone. It seemed I had formed the wrong impression of her.

  “May I look at those photographs of Catherine with her post-mortem husbands again?” I asked Sergeant Richards once we were upstairs in the parade room.

  He walked over to a chest of drawers, pulled one of them open and retrieved a paper file. He placed it on a nearby desk and flicked through it until he found the photographs. Then he laid them out in front of us. This was the first time I had seen the three pictures side by side. I tried not to look at the glassy-eyed expression on each of the men. Their faces made me shiver.

  I looked closely at Catherine’s face in the three photographs. Each had been taken two years after the previous one. I particularly focused on the photographs taken in 1880 and 1884. There was no doubt that Catherine’s face showed slight signs of ageing in the most recent picture. Her face was slightly plumper in the earlier picture and her skin was noticeably firmer around the eyes and chin.

  “Are you sure that the woman you’re holding downstairs is Catherine Curran?” I asked Sergeant Richards.

  “Absolutely certain. She fits the description of Catherine and was found looking lost with a train ticket from London in her purse. Besides, she was carrying a large sum of money and a bag which contained clothing and a pair of shoes.”

  “Have you identified her by any other means?”

  “There was nothing among her personal effects to identify her as Catherine Curran.”

  “Then how do you know for certain that it’s her?”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “I don’t know. But surely you need to be certain that the woman you are holding here is Catherine Curran. Have you asked her?”

  Sergeant Richards gave a dry laugh. “Of course we’ve asked her. But you’ve seen how she refuses to talk to anyone.”

  “She spoke to me.”

  “She didn’t deny that she was Catherine Curran, did she? You’d think that if she chose to say anything the first thing she’d say would be, ‘You’ve apprehended the wrong person.’ Then she would presumably go to some lengths to prove who she really was, and perhaps point us in the direction of a friend or family member who could identify her.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want anyone to know who she is.”

  “And why not?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m questioning whether you have arrested the right person, because the evidence you have to suggest that the woman downstairs is Catherine Curran is merely circumstantial. If you look at the photographs on the desk here you can see that the woman in the cell downstairs most closely resembles the Catherine we see in the first picture. However, the Catherine in the photograph taken this year looks much older than the woman in the cell downstairs. She didn’t look twenty-nine to me.”

  “You can’t always judge a person’s age by their face, Miss Green.”

  “No, not always, but you can usually get a rough idea. Consider the life Catherine has led. I know nothing of her youth, but I do know that she has worked for most of her adult life in leather markets in Bermondsey and Lambeth. This type of employment is quite strenuous, and after some years it takes its toll on a person’s appearance. Consider also that Catherine has been married four times and has endured the death of three of her husbands. Perhaps she had a hand in that, but we don’t know for sure yet. I would therefore expect Catherine to look much as she does in this photograph.” I pointed at the one which had been taken most recently. “This looks to be a woman of twenty-nine who has endured a certain amount of adversity. The woman you’re holding downstairs does not appear that way to me.”

  “She may have suffered great adversity.”

  “But she looks much younger than the woman in the photograph. Could you arrange for someone to identify her?”

  “Such as who?”

  I wished James were present. I liked Sergeant Richards, but I was beginning to doubt his ability to handle such a complex case. I felt sympathy for him as he had recently lost his colleague in tragic circumstances, but I was finding the conversation increasingly frustrating and was beginning to worry about the impact this situation might have on the case.

  “Someone who knows her! Florence Burrell or William Curran, for example. Catherine Curran was married to their brothers, after all. Or perhaps a neighbour, or someone she worked with at the leather market.”

  Sergeant Richards nodded. “We could ask Miss Burrell or Mr Curran, I suppose.”

  “Please do so, Sergeant, because if you’re holding the wrong woman you know what that means, don’t you? It means there is a possibility that Benjamin Taylor was poisoned by his wife on Friday evening. And it also means that she is still at liberty to poison someone else.”

  Chapter 39

  I worked in the reading room the following day, developing my article about the cholera epidemic in Naples. It was difficult to concentrate. I couldn’t help wondering whether Sergeant Richards had managed to confirm that the woman under arrest was indeed Catherine Curran. If she wasn’t Catherine, who was she? There was no doubt that the police investigation had been hampered by Inspector Martin’s death. Had that been the poisoner’s intention?

  I was deeply concerned that James was unwell for the same reason. What I wanted to do, more than anything else, was to visit his home again and find out whether he was beginning to recover. Would Charlotte inform me if his condition worsened?

  Thoughts of James consumed my mind. Would it really be so terrible if I called at his home again and inquired ho
w he was? I pictured Charlotte’s stormy expression as she answered the door to me a second time. There was no doubt that another visit would antagonise her.

  I sat back in my chair and sighed. I needed to know that he was all right. I couldn’t bear the not knowing. I wanted to be there beside him, and I wanted to ensure that he got better again. I began to think the best thing to do was send him a telegram.

  As I pondered this, I became aware of a figure from the corner of my eye. I turned to see Mr Sherman walking toward me. I blinked, struggling to believe my eyes.

  But it was him, and I felt a smile spread across my face.

  “What are you doing here, sir?” I whispered once he had reached my side.

  “Can we find somewhere to talk?”

  I packed my papers away excitedly and we made our way outside.

  “What’s happening with your case, sir?” I asked as we descended the steps of the British Museum.

  “We’re all due back in court to face the charges this Thursday,” he said glumly. “And no doubt all the luminaries of Fleet Street will be there to report on the former editor of the Morning Express’ public downfall.”

  “Not former, surely?” I said. “You can return to your job once this has all blown over.”

  “After serving a jail term of four months? I doubt it very much.”

  “You haven’t been found guilty yet, or even stood trial. Perhaps the charges against you will be dropped.”

  “That’s what my supposedly brilliant lawyer is working toward, but I can’t say that I’m terribly hopeful. Standing trial will mark the end of my career on Fleet Street whether I’m found guilty or not.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair at all,” I said. “You’re so good at your job, Mr Sherman.”

  “Thank you, Miss Green. I’m not perfect, though; far from it. And I can’t pretend that I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I knew the risks and I was foolish. Anyway, that’s by the by. I didn’t come here to bemoan my situation.”

  “Shall we have a drink at the Museum Tavern?”