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  The Penny Green Series: Books 1-3

  Emily Organ

  Contents

  Books in the Penny Green Series

  LIMELIGHT

  THE ROOKERY

  THE MAID’S SECRET

  Thank you

  The Penny Green Series: Books 4-6

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  Books in the Penny Green Series

  Limelight

  The Rookery

  The Maid’s Secret

  The Inventor

  Curse of the Poppy

  The Bermondsey Poisoner

  An Unwelcome Guest

  LIMELIGHT

  Penny Green Mystery Book 1

  Prologue

  London, 1883

  The gunshot broke the silence of the still night. Its echo floated through the lanes and streets of Highgate as birds cawed with alarm, woken unexpectedly from their roost.

  PC John Preston 32Y was walking past the sleepy, middle-class terraces of Bisham Gardens for the second time that evening when he was startled by the noise. Just as he realised what he had heard, a second shot rang out.

  Had he also heard a scream?

  It seemed the shots had come from the west side of Highgate Cemetery.

  The officer sprinted to the gas lamp at the end of the street and on towards the cemetery gates.

  The tall iron gates had been locked for the night. PC Preston shone the beam of his bullseye lantern over them in an attempt to ascertain how high they were and whether he would be able to climb them.

  A third shot urged him to hurry.

  What was happening in there?

  He placed his lantern on the ground, removed his gloves and gripped the cold iron bars firmly with both hands. He tried to clamber up the gate, cursing as his boots slipped against the metal.

  Three more shots followed and the officer froze as he heard them.

  Someone was in trouble and he couldn’t get over the gate.

  He wrenched off his overcoat and stepped back before taking a run at the gates. After some considerable effort, he finally clambered over and was able to retrieve his lantern from between the bars.

  The night was moonless and now silent as PC Preston followed the path through the cemetery, holding his lantern out in front of him. The other hand was wrapped tightly around his revolver.

  “Police!” he called out. “Show yourself!”

  There was no response.

  Headstones and monuments loomed before him, pale in the lantern light. The officer jumped at the stare of a cat’s bright mirror eyes. It watched him for a moment before scurrying away.

  His heartbeat pounded heavily in his ears and chest. He didn’t care for graveyards and had only been in this place once before. One of his uncles had been a gravedigger and it was said that he had died at the shock of seeing a mysterious shadow while hard at work one morning. This wasn’t something PC Preston had dwelt on much until this moment.

  The lights of London twinkled welcomingly in the distance.

  If only he were there rather than alone in this dark graveyard on a cold hillside.

  Despite his high collar, the back of his neck felt like ice.

  If someone wanted to attack him, surely they would approach from behind, he conjectured.

  He spun round, sweeping the beam of his lantern over the graves and tombs. He caught sight of a stone angel, kneeling in prayer.

  But there was no living being in sight.

  Who, then, had screamed?

  “Hello?” he called out anxiously.

  Still he heard nothing.

  PC Preston continued along the pathway, uncertain of where he was heading. He felt as though he were lost in the city of the dead.

  He felt confident that the shooting spree was over.

  But what of the victim?

  His lantern illuminated two towering stone monoliths. He made his way towards them and saw that they flanked a decorative archway, which resembled an Egyptian temple.

  His mouth felt dry as he noticed an extremely faint light shining beyond the archway. Stepping forward, he peered into the darkness and his light fell on a stone avenue lined with doorways to the tombs. He would have to walk along the avenue to find out where the light was coming from.

  “Hello?” he called again. His voice echoed loudly in the enclosed space.

  There was no reply.

  He filled his chest with air and breathed out slowly to calm his nerves as he walked beneath the archway and stepped into the avenue of silent doorways.

  The flickering light grew stronger as he crept towards it.

  Chapter 1

  I guessed the man in the bowler hat was a detective as soon as he approached me. I had just left the reading room at the British Museum and was hurrying down the steps to catch an omnibus that would transport me home.

  The chill of the stone seeped through the worn soles of my boots and the street beyond the railings was lost in an October fog that was the colour of tea. I wanted to get back to my lodgings before the weather worsened and my feet grew colder still.

  “Miss Green?”

  Along with his hat, the man wore a dark overcoat and had a young, square, clean-shaven face, thick, dark eyebrows and bright blue eyes. He had an awkward but insistent manner, which suggested that he didn’t wish to accost me but that his business required him to do so.

  “I am Inspector James Blakely from CID at Scotland Yard.” He raised his hat. “I need to speak to you about an unfortunate incident.”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “No, no. Of course not, Miss Green. It is in your capacity as a news reporter that I call upon you for help.”

  “I am no longer a news reporter. The commissioner of Scotland Yard saw to that.”

  He cleared his throat. “So I understand, Miss Green. I do apologise.”

  “I appreciate your apology, Inspector. If only it had the power to change what has happened.”

  “Perhaps I could speak to the commissioner about it.”

  “Perhaps you could. Would he listen to you, do you think?” I couldn’t imagine Commissioner Dickson paying much attention to a man I assumed to be the most junior detective at the Yard.

  “I can try.”

  “It’s growing dark,” I said, glancing at the thickening gloom around about us. “I should be happy to help Scotland Yard once I am reinstated at the Morning Express. Good evening, Inspector.”

  I continued on in the direction of the gate.

  “Miss Green!” He caught up with me and matched my stride. “I really would appreciate your assistance.”

  “I am in no position to help you, Inspector Blakely.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, Miss Green.”

  We walked through the gate into the busy street. The gas lamps were being lit as we reached a section of raised paving that served as a pedestrian crossing.

  “Miss Green, you are one of the few people who can help with this most unusual case.” The inspector was forced to raise his voice above the sound of clopping hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels.

  “Can you not see that I am trying to cross the street?”

  A hansom cab emerged from the grimy brown fog. I waited for it to pass before skipping out onto the crossing, avoiding the flattened patches of horse manure as best I could.

  “Miss Green!”

  We reached the pavement by the Museum Tavern.

  “Are you still following me, Inspector?”

  “Miss Green, it is most urgent that I speak with you. It is regarding the actress, Lizzie Dixie. She has been murdered.”

  I came to an instant standstill. My ears felt as though they had been boxed.

  I stared at the young i
nspector and turned his words over in my mind. “Lizzie Dixie? But it’s impossible. She drowned. Years ago.” I paused to think. “Five years ago, in fact.”

  “So we thought.”

  “But she did! On the Princess Alice.”

  “Yes, Miss Green. Now you must understand why I need to speak with you.”

  He took my arm and hurried me through the swing doors of the tavern before I could present any argument.

  “We can talk in here.”

  The air in the pub was heavy with pipe smoke. Carved glass mirrors reflected the flickering gas lights and my spectacles quickly steamed up as Inspector Blakely led the way through the throng of drinkers to a table partitioned either side by a wooden screen.

  “Can I offer you a drink, Miss Green?”

  “No thank you, Inspector. I was on my way home. I can’t stay long, I have work to do.”

  I sat down on the bench, removed my gloves and wiped my spectacles with them. Then I arranged my handbag and umbrella by my side while I thought about Lizzie Dixie.

  How could she possibly have been murdered?

  Six hundred people had drowned in 1878 when the SS Princess Alice sank in the Thames at Woolwich. Lizzie’s body had been recovered and buried in Kensal Green Cemetery.

  I thought of Lizzie’s performances and the conversations we had shared in her dressing room. I had written a number of articles on her, and that, I assumed, was why the inspector wanted to talk to me.

  Could Lizzie really have survived and been living somewhere in secret these past five years? Was another woman lying in her grave?

  Considering the possibility made me crave something restorative.

  “Actually, Inspector, I’ve changed my mind,” I called over to him at the bar. “I’ll have an East India sherry, thank you.”

  When Inspector Blakely returned with our drinks, he removed his hat and overcoat and took the seat opposite me, placing a glass of thick brown stout in front of him. He wore a grey woollen jacket with a matching waistcoat and a dark blue tie.

  I found his manner calm and easy. He seemed less confrontational than many of his colleagues. I took a sip of sherry, which felt pleasingly warm in my throat.

  “I cannot understand what you’re telling me about Lizzie Dixie.” I said. “There has to be some sort of mistake.”

  “A mistake was made five years ago. It seems the wrong woman was identified as Lizzie Dixie after the sinking of the Princess Alice.”

  “How has this happened? How do you know that it was Lizzie who was murdered?”

  “She was wearing a locket with a picture of her daughter inside it. And her husband identified her. There are many details in this case which I can go into, should you agree to help me.”

  I took another sip of sherry and examined my ink-stained fingers.

  “You have been writing today?” he asked, glancing at the ugly blue blotches.

  “I have.”

  I tucked my fingers into my palm to stop him looking at them.

  “Do you often work in the reading room?”

  “Yes, it’s a warm place to work and I find all the reference books I need in there. The electric lighting is more reliable now than it was previously. How did you know I would be there today?”

  “I’m a detective.” He shrugged his shoulders as though he were stating the obvious. “What are you working on at the moment?”

  “An article about Germaine de Staël. I read a long essay of hers today, which was important but sadly rather boring.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She was a writer. A French lady of letters.”

  “Like yourself, then? Apart from being French, of course. And boring.” He took a gulp of stout.

  “I would love to be a lady of letters. It sounds like the perfect job to me.” I thought of Madame de Staël writing in her opulent Swiss château and compared her with a vision of myself at the writing desk in my draughty garret room.

  “Well I should like to read the article when it is published.”

  “I doubt you would, Inspector.”

  “Why not? I like to read. I’m currently reading Thackeray’s The History of Pendennis.”

  “Is it to your taste?”

  “I am quite enjoying it, though not as much as I did Vanity Fair. I can lend it to you once I am finished with it, if you would like.”

  “That would be kind of you, thank you. My article is hardly of Thackeray’s standard, but you should be able to read it in the Ladies’ Scholarly Repository magazine. I believe it is due to be published in January.”

  “I shall look out for it.”

  He raised his glass and smiled, and I felt the frost between us begin to thaw.

  “I should rather be working on news stories as I used to.”

  “If you assist me I will ensure that you have exclusive news on this case before anyone else. The Yard does not have a reputation for sharing information with the press, as I’m sure you are aware.”

  “Had I still been a staff member on the Morning Express your offer might have been tempting. But how do you think an exclusive could be of any use to me now? I’m a penny-a-liner, writing anything for anyone who will pay me. My days in the news room are over.”

  I drained my sherry and instantly felt I should like another. I also wished to remove my hat and jacket, but I didn’t want to be overly familiar with my new companion.

  “You are young for a Scotland Yard, detective.”

  Inspector Blakely blushed in response to my rather personal comment. “The Yard’s CID is growing rapidly and they are recruiting anyone they believe shows promise. Police work is in my blood, I’m afraid. My father was a chief superintendent and my grandfather was a constable.”

  “It must be hard to imagine doing anything different, in that case. If I were to assist you, what exactly would you expect from me?”

  “You knew Lizzie Dixie shortly before she went missing, I believe.”

  “Who has told you that?”

  “Chief Inspector Cullen. I understand you worked with him at the time of the Doughty Street murders.”

  “Yes, that is correct.” I felt a bitter taste in my mouth.

  “Lizzie had a complicated life,” he continued. “She had many acquaintances, but few people she would have called friends. I should like to find out exactly who she knew and who she engaged with socially. I need to understand what her state of mind was before she was supposed to have drowned. And I need to understand why she pretended to be dead. Do you think you can help me with these lines of inquiry? Because somewhere within this puzzle lies the identity of her killer. Her killer must have been someone close to her. One of the few people who knew she was still alive.”

  “So you believe the murder was planned?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What happened?”

  “Last night, PC Preston from Highgate Y Division was walking his usual night-time patrol along Bisham Gardens when he was startled by a series of gunshots. He quickly determined that the noise was emanating from the west side of Highgate Cemetery.

  “He climbed over the gates at the top of Swain’s Lane and spent some time searching the cemetery with his lantern for signs of a disturbance. He eventually found the body of a woman in the Lebanon Circle, and, as the day dawned and there was more light by which to examine her, it became evident that she had been shot.”

  “And did he recognise her as Lizzie Dixie?”

  “At first, no. After discovering she was deceased, he summoned Dr Hugh Lechmore, a physician local to Highgate, who examined her body at the location. He ascertained that she had been shot four times.”

  I shivered. “That’s terrible. Poor Lizzie.”

  “She was taken to the mortuary chapel at the cemetery this morning, where Mr Cohen, a surgeon of Highgate, conducted a post-mortem examination. He discovered a bullet wound to her upper left leg and three bullet wounds to her chest. By this time, Inspector Willis of Highgate CID was present and the woman’s resemb
lance to the late actress was realised. Before proceeding any further, Inspector Willis consulted the Yard about the confusing case. Highgate CID had come across nothing of this kind before, so the Yard has been brought in to investigate. Y Division is carrying out an extensive search of Highgate Cemetery and the surrounding area to recover the murder weapon and any other clues.

  “Mr Joseph Taylor, Lizzie’s husband, identified his wife’s body this afternoon. I have never seen a man so shaken up. He thought she had died five years ago! Can you imagine how he must have felt seeing her laid out in the mortuary this very afternoon?”

  “No, I don’t think I can.”

  “An inquest will be opened tomorrow in Highgate. I am not at liberty to discuss further details of this case with you, Miss Green, unless we have an agreement that we will assist one another. Would you like another sherry?”

  “No thank you. I will have to travel home before the fog worsens.” I put on my gloves. “We all thought Lizzie was dead, but her murderer knew that she was still alive. There cannot have been many people who might have known that, could there?”

  “Indeed not. It narrows down our list of suspects to a small number, but the challenge we face is finding out who those people might be. Do you and I have an arrangement?”

  “An arrangement?”

  “That you tell me everything you know about Lizzie Dixie and I grant you exclusive access to the particulars of the case?”

  “I can tell you what you need to know, Inspector. I should like to help, as I too would like to find out who did this to Lizzie. But as I explained, exclusive news is of no use to me. I can see no benefit of an arrangement, as you put it. The other papers will no doubt be reporting on the story?”

  “The Yard will remain tight-lipped on the matter.”

  “As it so often does.”