The Bermondsey Poisoner

  The Bermondsey Poisoner

  Penny Green Mystery Book 6

  Emily Organ

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Epilogue

  The End

  Historical Note

  Thank you

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  The Runaway Girl Series

  Chapter 1

  “This is all you need for your travels is it, Francis?” asked my sister Eliza as we stood in the Great Hall of Euston Station. She pointed at the leather trunk by his feet.

  “Yes, it contains everything I need, thank you.” He grinned. “I have never stopped to admire this hall before. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  I followed his gaze to the grand stone staircase, immense columns and coffered ceiling, which was flooded with light from a high row of windows. Beside us stood the statue of a man in a frock coat with a scroll in his hand.

  “But you’re to be away for several months,” continued Eliza. “Surely you’ll need more than a single trunk!”

  “It will be perfectly sufficient for my needs,” he replied. “Most important of all is taking the correct clothing.” He gestured at his light brown suit. “This looks rather pale and out of place in a London train station, but it will serve me well in the tropics.”

  “I’m sure it will, Francis,” I said.

  He held my gaze for a moment, his green eyes twinkling with anticipation behind his spectacles. I realised how much he was looking forward to searching for my father and felt slightly envious of him.

  “Time to say goodbye to Mr Stephenson,” he said, glancing up at the statue next to us.

  “Who’s he?” asked Eliza.

  “George Stephenson, the father of railways.”

  “Oh, him.”

  “His early engines were designed for the coal mines,” continued Francis, “but he turned his hand to passenger trains for the Stockton and Darlington Railway, and after that the Liverpool and Manchester line. Before long, railroad builders were travelling all the way over from America to learn from the great man.”

  “I’m sure Mr Stephenson wishes you well on your travels,” interrupted Eliza. “However, I’m worried that you’re about to miss your train to Liverpool. Which platform does it depart from?”

  Francis looked up at the clock. “Oh yes, I must go. Platform twelve.”

  He picked up his trunk and we hurried through an archway toward the platforms. Plumes of smoke rose up into the lattice girder roof.

  “Platform twelve is this way!” my sister shouted over the hiss of steam and the shrill of guards’ whistles. She strode on ahead of us, attracting a few bemused glances in her practical woollen suit with its skirt divided like breeches.

  Francis and I followed her as she darted around porters pushing trolleys filled with luggage and people embracing each other with hearty hellos and goodbyes.

  “Where are you meeting your translator, Francis?” bellowed Eliza.

  “Liverpool. My sister will also meet me there. She and her husband are going to see me onto the boat.”

  “How lovely that your sister will be there. Oh, this must be your train!”

  Francis handed his trunk to a porter and we began to stride purposefully alongside the brown and cream carriages.

  “Are you headed for first class at the front?” Eliza called out.

  “No, I’m travelling in second,” replied Francis.

  “Oh, Francis, you should have afforded yourself a little comfort!”

  “Second will suffice.”

  “Just as one trunk suffices, I suppose!”

  “Don’t forget that Francis has to travel by mule for a few hundred miles to Bogotá,” I said. “He can’t take too much luggage.”

  “Here we are!” said Francis as we reached a carriage marked second class. The letters LNWR – denoting London and North Western Railway – were etched onto the side in gold.

  I felt a lump in my throat as he opened the carriage door.

  Eliza suddenly embraced him, and he took a step back, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

  “Good luck, Francis!” she said. “You must write to us as often as you can. We’ll be thinking of you every day, won’t we, Penelope?”

  I nodded fervently. “We will.”

  Francis brushed his sandy fringe away from his spectacles and turned to face me. “Goodbye, Penny.”

  I could barely hear him above the noise of the station.

  “I’ll accompany you into the carriage,” I replied.

  I didn’t feel ready to say goodbye. I was struggling to believe that it would be many months before we saw him again.

  “Careful, Penelope, you don’t want the train running away with you,” warned Eliza.

  Francis moved aside as I lifted my skirts and stepped into the quiet compartment, sitting down on one of the blue carpet seats. He closed the door behind him so that we could hear each other more clearly. Then he removed his bowler hat and placed it on the luggage rack above my head.

  “I hope you have a comfortable journey,” I said, “and I hope all your travelling companions are agreeable. You will write to us as Eliza asked, won’t you? Please do send word to us once you have arrived in Colombia. Or perhaps you could send a letter from one of the stops along the way.”

  “Of course I will.” He gave a quiet laugh.

  “What’s funny?”

  “If only you had been this interested in hearing from me before I made the decision to leave.”

  I paused, surprised by the candidness of his comment.

  “I have always been interested in you, Francis.”

  “Not quite interested enough, though.” He smiled. “Never mind, there is nothing more to be said on the matter.”

  The train guard’s whistle sounded, and Eliza hammered on the window.

  “Please be careful, Francis,” I said, rising to my feet. “Colombia is a dangerous place, and crossing the Atlantic Ocean is also hazardous.”

  “I shall be fine.”

  “And good luck. I hope you manage to find Father.”

  “I shall do my best, Penny.”

  I embraced him, but my movement was so impulsive that I pinned both his arms down by his sides. There had once been an opportunity for me to marry Francis, but the chanc
e had now passed. Had it been a mistake to turn away a man who loved me?

  The train hooted its whistle.

  We separated, and I adjusted my spectacles as I felt a tear roll down my cheek.

  “You need to disembark,” said Francis. “You don’t want to end up coming with me!”

  I didn’t rush toward the door; indeed, I quite liked the thought of accompanying him. An adventure in South America sounded rather appealing. Besides, what was left for me in London? The man I loved, Inspector James Blakely, was to marry his fiancée, Charlotte, in a little under four weeks. I wasn’t sure how I would cope with it when the day came.

  “Please write,” I said again.

  “I’ve told you I will, now get off the train!” He laughed.

  The carriage gave a jolt. I glanced out of the window and saw that the train was beginning to move. Eliza was marching along beside the window with an alarmed expression on her face and wildly gesticulating arms.

  I flung the door open and readied myself to step out onto the platform, which was beginning to flash past with increasing rapidity.

  “Careful, Penny!” said Francis.

  “Goodbye!” I said tearfully and hopped out, stumbling as my feet connected with the platform.

  I recovered myself and managed to slam the door shut just in time. Eliza and I held on to our hats as we jogged alongside the train. Francis lowered the window.

  “Goodbye!” we shouted. “Good luck!”

  The train picked up speed so that we were no longer able to keep up. We stopped, breathless, and watched Francis’ waving hand until it disappeared from view.

  The last of the carriages pulled out of the station. The train gave a whistle, reached a bend in the railway line and was gone.

  “Doesn’t he remind you of Father, Penelope?” asked Eliza, her voice cracking. “I used to feel like this whenever he went away.”

  The aching lump in my throat returned. “What if we never see him again, Ellie?”

  “Oh, we will, we will.” She draped an arm across my shoulders. “He’s going to find Father, I feel sure of it. Just imagine what it will be like to welcome both of them home!”

  “Do you really think that could happen, Ellie?” I turned to look at her.

  “I like to believe so, don’t you? I have every confidence in Francis, and I know that he’ll write regularly so we shall know exactly how he’s getting on. He’s a good man, Penelope, but perhaps it’s just as well that you didn’t agree to marry him. He would never have gone to search for Father then, would he? On reflection, this is the best outcome for all of us. We have someone we can trust searching for our father, and Francis gets to go on a great adventure!”

  “Perhaps I should have gone with him,” I said. “I rather wish that I had now.”

  “Nonsense, Penelope. You couldn’t possibly go travelling across South America. It would be completely unbefitting for a woman.”

  “You campaign for women to be given the vote, yet you believe women are incapable of becoming explorers?” I asked.

  “The two issues are quite distinct. Now, shall we find somewhere to have an early lunch? If I recall correctly there are some quite pleasant dining rooms at this station.”

  Chapter 2

  A South American Adventure

  A second search for the plant-hunter, Mr. Frederick Brinsley Green, is to be carried out by Mr. Francis Temple Edwards. Mr. Edwards has no previous experience of international exploration and was, until recently, employed as a clerk at the British Library. Through his acquaintance with Mr. Green’s daughter, Miss Penelope Green, Mr. Edwards has forged an interest in discovering the whereabouts of Mr. Green, who has not been seen since the March of 1875. Mr. Edwards will sail from Liverpool tomorrow, Wednesday 20th August, to the United States of Colombia on the SS Pampero.

  A previous search was conducted by the explorer Mr. Isaac Fox-Stirling eight years ago in the March of 1876. Although Mr. Fox-Stirling was unsuccessful in establishing the whereabouts of Mr. Green, he discovered a hut which had recently been inhabited by Mr. Green close to the Falls of Tequendama, twenty-five miles southwest of Bogotá. Mr. Edwards plans to return to this location and make further enquiries with the assistance of a Spanish translator.

  Mr. Edwards has compensated for his lack of expeditionary experience by conducting exhaustive research into the South American continent and her peoples.

  Before he was declared missing, Mr. Green made a number of trips to South America and transported many exotic plants back to the shores of Britannia. At the time of his disappearance, the plant-hunter had been collecting orchid specimens on behalf of Kew Gardens.

  Mr. G. W. Brice of Kew Gardens spoke to our reporter: “For nine years mystery has surrounded the supposed disappearance of one of our brave plant-hunters, and with no confirmation that Mr. Green lost his life in Amazonia it is everyone’s hope that Mr. Edwards finds him in good health. It would be marvellous indeed if Mr. Green were to return home and be reunited with his wife and daughters.”

  “I think the article places an unfair emphasis on Francis’ lack of experience,” I said, folding up my copy of The Times.

  “Well, it’s rather an ambitious expedition, isn’t it, Miss Green?” replied my glib colleague, Edgar Fish.

  We were sitting in the newsroom at the Morning Express newspaper, which was a cluttered place with piles of paper on every surface and a grimy window looking out onto Fleet Street.

  “You can’t blame the reporter for pointing it out,” continued Edgar. He was a young man with heavy features and small, glinting eyes. “The chap’s probably never been further west than Kensington.”

  “I’m certain he must have,” I replied curtly.

  “Has he been on a ship before?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because if a chap’s never been on a ship before he’s bound to find a two-week Atlantic crossing a bit rough.”

  “Especially if there’s a storm,” added my curly-haired and corpulent colleague, Frederick Potter.

  “That’s right, Potter, and the storms are not infrequent, are they?”

  “Sometimes they can last for days,” I said, “though Mr Edwards is fully aware of that. We were forced to listen to Mr Fox-Stirling’s never-ending tales of Atlantic crossings enough times.”

  “Getting there is one thing,” continued Edgar, “but managing the natives is quite another!”

  “They lead a somewhat primitive life in that part of the world,” added Frederick.

  “Do they practise cannibalism in Amazonia?” asked Edgar. “Mr Edwards had better watch his back, else he’ll end up in a native’s cooking pot!”

  “Don’t be so ridiculous!” I snapped.

  “What’s ridiculous?” asked our editor, Mr Sherman, as he strode into the newsroom, leaving the door to slam behind him.

  “Edgar suggested there is a possibility that Mr Edwards will be eaten by cannibals while he searches for my father,” I said.

  “May I suggest, Fish, that if you’ve nothing intelligent to say, don’t bother saying anything at all,” scolded the editor. He had a thick black moustache, and his hair was oiled and parted to one side.

  “That means he’ll be silent forevermore!” laughed Frederick.

  His comment was met with a scowl from Mr Sherman, who took a puff on his pipe before turning to address me. “Miss Green, have you heard about a chap called John Curran?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He seems to have been maliciously poisoned. The inquest into his death will take place tomorrow at The Five Bells in Bermondsey Square.”

  “Do the police have any suspects?” I asked.

  “I understand the wife is under suspicion, but she has vanished.”

  “Damning herself by her absence, eh?” said Edgar. “There is no surer way to convince people of your guilt than by running off and hiding somewhere.”

  “It may be a little more complicated than that, Fish,” said Mr Sherman. “The woman may have her
reasons for disappearing, or perhaps I’m not in possession of the full facts of the case. I’m relying purely on a conversation I overheard down at the Turkish baths yesterday evening.”

  “Where would we be if we didn’t all have our ears to the ground in one way or another, eh, sir?” said Edgar. “You hear your news at the Turkish baths and I hear mine at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. Where do you hear your news, Miss Green?”

  “From my landlady,” I replied. “She hears it all from a neighbour of ours, Mrs Wilkinson. I don’t know how Mrs Wilkinson manages it, but I swear she’s always the first in London to know anything.”

  “Well, I’d say that between the bathers, drinkers and neighbours of this good city we’re on the ball!” said Edgar. “And let’s not forget your connection at the Yard, Miss Green. It’s always useful to have a friend down in the CID. We may only have a few reporters, but between us we seem to have most of London covered.”

  “Well done, Fish,” said the editor. “Perhaps once you’ve finished congratulating yourself you might like to get on and write something.”

  “I was congratulating everyone, sir.”

  “That’s most kind of you. Now then, don’t forget that the Morning Express is only as good as its last issue, so let’s get on with it. We have circulation numbers to worry about! Miss Green, get yourself down to The Five Bells tomorrow and find out what you can about the poisoned man and his wife.”