Curse of the Poppy (Penny Green Series Book 5) Page 14

  “Are you sure you wish to hear it while you’re enjoying your soup?”

  “James, my dinner will feel completely ruined if you don’t explain to me right away what was so terrible about the letter.”

  “Something unpleasant was enclosed in the envelope.”

  I sat poised with my spoon hovering above my soup.

  “What exactly?”

  “A severed human finger.”

  My spoon fell into my soup, sending splashes all over my sister’s beautiful dress.

  “A finger?”

  James nodded.

  I picked up my serviette and wiped at the bodice. “Whose finger?” I said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Male? Female?”

  “Definitely male.”

  “And which one?”

  “The little finger. I’ve had a police surgeon analyse it.”

  “Could he tell you anything more about it?”

  “He said that it comes from an adult male who is engaged in laborious work and is likely to be between the ages of twenty and thirty.”

  “But who? And what has happened to him?” I shuddered. “If he’s still alive he’s missing at least one finger. They may have cut off more, or they might have killed the chap. Oh, it doesn’t bear thinking about! Did the message say the perpetrator would do the same thing to you?”

  “I suspect that was the implication.”

  A sense of dread turned my stomach. I looked down at my soup and realised I had completely lost my appetite.

  “These people need to be caught, James. They’re extremely dangerous, and they could be anywhere! They could be watching you right now!”

  “That is not a comforting thought,” said James, glancing around again.

  “The Forsters’ servants aren’t safe,” I said, “especially the boy. Anyone who witnessed the attacks on the Forsters must surely be at risk. Can you protect them?”

  “Inspector Bowles has housed the boy somewhere. I’ll ask him where he’s up to with the other servants.”

  “These people seem well organised and ruthless,” I said. “It’s frightening. And to think they would send a severed finger to Scotland Yard! That just goes to show how little respect they have for authority.”

  “Lack of respect for authority is the least of our worries, Penny.”

  “What is Chief Inspector Cullen doing about it?”

  “He’s concerned, as is the commissioner. I’ve told them we need more men on the Forster case.”

  “It may also have something to do with Alfred Holland.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Oh, James!” I shivered. “Aren’t you tempted to disappear somewhere and get away from all this?”

  “On a personal level I am, but it’s my duty to stay here and see this through. Please don’t worry about me, Penny. I’m having second thoughts as to whether I should have told you about this.”

  “Of course you should!”

  “Then please don’t make me regret it by worrying about me. I’ll be fine.”

  Chapter 32

  Once home I changed out of Eliza’s fancy frock and into my usual skirt and blouse. Then I stepped out in the early evening and took the underground railway from Moorgate to Charing Cross. While I had no hope of attending the dinner at the Burlington Hotel, there was another method I could employ in order to speak to Mr Sheridan. I could approach him as a news reporter.

  It was a twenty-minute walk from Charing Cross to the hotel on Cork Street. I stood by the railings, close to the columned entrance, and waited for the dinner attendees to arrive. I had no idea what Mr Sheridan looked like, so I could only hope that my brother-in-law would arrive swiftly and give me a description of the man.

  A four-wheeled brougham carriage drew up and the hotel footman helped a frail, white-haired gentleman step out.

  “Mr Sheridan?” I said hopefully.

  “What?”

  “Are you Mr Sheridan, sir?”

  “A who?”

  The footman shouted my question into the old man’s ear and the elderly gentlemen shook his head in reply.

  “No, no. Not me.”

  I watched the footman help him into the hotel and continued the wait.

  An expensive landau carriage arrived and a large man with a profusion of grey whiskers stepped out, but he wasn’t Mr Sheridan either and didn’t seem to like me asking the question.

  “No, thank you! Not interested!” he barked.

  The third carriage was an elegant, well-polished barouche with an open top. This time I recognised the occupant: a short, round man sitting comfortably at the centre of the large seat. He wore a top hat and spectacles with a high collar, black bow tie and black dinner suit. I felt sure he was the man I had seen with Mr Forster in Margaret Street the morning after Mrs Forster’s murder.

  “Mr Sheridan?” I ventured as he made a sprightly leap out of his carriage.

  “Why, yes. What can I do for you?” He smiled.

  I introduced myself. “I’ve been reporting on the story of Mr and Mrs Forster’s death, and I recall seeing you with Mr Forster outside his home after the terrible events that occurred there.”

  “Yes, I was there to support Augustus. Simply dreadful, it was, and then Augustus himself just a few days later!”

  I was pleasantly surprised to find him amenable and talkative.

  “Why should anyone wish to do such a thing?”

  “I have no idea. Mr and Mrs Forster were good friends, and this is the first evening I have been out since their deaths. In fact, I wasn’t planning to come at all, but this is a long-standing appointment and I didn’t wish to let Sir Archibald Duffield down as it took him a long time to get all these chaps together. And this event is quite timely as my company is currently brokering a contract with the India Office and there are some influential men here this evening who can smooth the waters where that’s concerned. I start to become nervous at this stage of negotiation. Just when you think you have everything in order something comes along to upset proceedings. That’s happened to me many times before, and I’ve learnt not to raise my hopes too quickly about such matters. This contract is one of the most important I’ve ever negotiated, and for Forster’s murder to have taken place at a time like this…” He trailed off for a moment. “Well, it’s really one of the worst things that could have happened. It’s hard to keep your mind focused on business when it’s distracted by grief.”

  “I can only imagine. What is the contract for?”

  “Ah, I’m afraid that must remain top secret for now, Miss Green! I shall be making a public announcement as soon as the ink is dry, but for the time being I’ll be fretting about it. Still, this evening should be quite pleasant. I’m determined to enjoy it even though it’s been such a difficult week.”

  “There is some speculation that Mr Forster’s financial difficulties may have had something to do with his death,” I said.

  “I couldn’t possibly say. I never involve myself in the affairs of another man, and his money woes are no business of mine unless he were to make a point of discussing them with me. In the case of Mr Forster I had no inkling that his finances were in such a dire state. I knew that his company in Calcutta was struggling with its profits, but I had no idea that he was attempting to shore things up in such a questionable manner. The chap was a friend of mine and I would have happily assisted him had he asked me to. But as no request was forthcoming I assumed he was handling the matter himself, which of course he was, though not particularly efficiently.”

  “So you believe that this inefficient handling of his affairs may be the reason someone wished him harm?”

  “Who can say?” He shrugged. “It’s a possibility, Miss Green, but not a certainty. We shall have to leave all that to the detectives.”

  “Have they approached you yet?”

  “Not yet. If I can be of any assistance I should be more than happy to speak to them, although I’m not sure I have much to add. Mr Forster st
opped working for my company last summer.”

  “Why did he leave?”

  “He wished to return to England, realising by that point, I think, that his own attempts to run a merchant company had failed. He’d tried and tried, but it wasn’t to be.”

  “Was he happy to be returning to England?”

  “Yes, I think so, but disappointed about his company. He was looking forward to living in his father’s home.”

  “Which he wrongly believed he owned himself.”

  “Did he? Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that. It was an extremely pleasant home in a delightful part of London, and then some murdering gang came along that evening and…” He paused. “Everything changed.”

  Another carriage had pulled up alongside us.

  “Penelope?” said a familiar voice. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “George!” I gave my brother-in-law a broad smile. His dinner suit was a fraction too tight.

  “You know Mr Billington-Grieg?” asked Mr Sheridan.

  “Yes, he’s my brother-in-law.”

  “What a marvellous coincidence!” Mr Sheridan smiled. “Good evening, sir. How are you?”

  “I’m very well, thank you, Mr Sheridan. I do apologise if my sister-in-law has been troubling you.”

  “Not at all! I’m enjoying our conversation. She’s been writing about old Forster for the Morning Express.”

  George gave me a look which suggested he had seen enough of me for one day.

  “Allow Mr Sheridan to enjoy his evening now, Penelope. He doesn’t wish to be pestered by the press during his important engagement.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind at all,” replied Mr Sheridan. “I think it quite charming that this young lady is showing such concern for the fellow. I really do find it worrying that something so barbaric could happen to a couple as pleasant as the Forsters. Doesn’t it bother you, Mr Billington-Grieg?”

  “Yes, it does. I think it bothers many of us. I, for one, won’t feel safe until the culprits are apprehended.”

  “Mr Alfred Holland,” I interjected. “Does that name mean anything to you, Mr Sheridan?”

  He gave me a puzzled look. “Holland? Alfred? No. Why?”

  “He was shot dead in an opium den.”

  “No, I don’t recall hearing anything about him. What a terrible way to go.”

  “He had also worked in India as an opium agent in Ghazipur.”

  “Really?” Mr Sheridan cocked his head to one side with interest.

  “But you have heard nothing about him? I’m trying to find out whether he and Mr Forster knew each other.”

  “No, I don’t recognise the name. In an opium den, you say? And he was an opium agent in India? It sounds as though he jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

  “Penelope, Mr Sheridan and I must go and enjoy our evening now,” said George. “Do please excuse us.”

  He rested a hand on Mr Sheridan’s shoulder and guided him toward the door of the Burlington Hotel.

  “Thank you very much for speaking to me, Mr Sheridan!” I called after them.

  He raised a hand in acknowledgement and then they were gone.

  Chapter 33

  “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, Penny, but you look rather pale this morning. Is everything all right?” whispered Mr Edwards.

  “Oh, I’m just a little tired. Thank you for asking, Francis.”

  In truth, I had slept badly the previous night. Every time I had closed my eyes the image of a severed finger had swum before them. I had never felt so concerned for James before. Someone who was willing to cut off another person’s finger had to be extremely barbaric. How could James, or any police officer, defend himself against something so inhuman?

  “Are you sure it’s just tiredness?” asked Francis. “You seem worried about something.”

  “It’s these murders. They’re so dreadful.” I shuddered.

  Francis sighed. “I wonder if there might be some merit in you writing for a different type of publication,” he said.

  “A different one? No, I couldn’t possibly. I like writing for the Morning Express.”

  “But it means you have to encounter such gruesome stories, Penny. Meanwhile, there are many excellent periodicals you could write far more pleasant stories for. The Ladies’ Scholarly Repository magazine, for example.”

  “I wrote articles for them during my brief hiatus in employment at the paper last year.”

  “I don’t recall that. What happened?”

  “It was before we were acquainted with one another. I criticised the work of Chief Inspector Cullen on a case and he complained to the commissioner, who just happens to be the cousin of my editor, Mr Sherman.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “I won’t go into the detail now, but suffice to say that Chief Inspector Cullen and I have never worked well together. I have had some experience writing for other publications, but I found them all rather dull, I’m afraid.”

  “But surely dull is preferable to gruesome?”

  “If you think about it sensibly I suppose it should be, but there’s a little more excitement with the gruesome stores, isn’t there?”

  “Excitement, but also danger.”

  I sighed. “Yes, there is danger, but I feel I can do something with these stories. When I think about the cases I’ve reported on, and particularly the ones I’ve worked on with Inspector Blakely, I feel that I’ve helped in bringing the perpetrators to justice. There’s no chance of doing that when you’re writing about French authors for the Ladies’ Scholarly Repository. I know that because I’ve already done it.”

  “You have your father’s sense of adventure,” said Francis with a smile.

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  “But you must also be careful.”

  “I’m always careful, Francis.”

  “Your visit to the opium den worried me.”

  “It mustn’t; I was absolutely fine. If there’s anyone we should be concerned about it’s Inspector Blakely.”

  “Why him?” Francis frowned.

  “It seems he has some particularly nasty people to deal with at the moment. I’m worried for him.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t worry about him. He can look after himself.”

  “I hope so.”

  “It’s not unusual for the police to put themselves at risk in the course of their work. And don’t forget that they’re accustomed to dealing with nasty people.”

  “I know. And I know that I shouldn’t be concerned.”

  “So why are you?” There was something unusually sharp in his tone.

  “He’s an acquaintance I’ve worked with for some time, and it’s natural for me to worry about the people I know and care about. I would be just as concerned about my sister, and about you.”

  “Would you?”

  “Yes, though your work isn’t quite as dangerous as the work James does, unless a particularly heavy tome were to slip off a shelf and fall on your head!”

  I had intended this comment to be light-hearted, but Francis’ expression darkened.

  “I shall go and see if any readers are at the desk awaiting assistance,” he said.

  “Is something wrong, Francis?”

  “No, not at all. I’ll leave you to your work, Penny.”

  Chapter 34

  “So Inspector Blakely had you doing a spot of work for him, did he?” asked Edgar. “I heard about your meeting with Mr Chakravarty.”

  “I’m not sure what it achieved,” I replied. “In fact, Mr Chakravarty is probably wondering why he hasn’t heard from me about his mortgage offer.”

  “I wonder why Blakely didn’t ask me,” said Edgar. “I’m the one who’s writing about the Forster murders.”

  Frederick chuckled. “That chap wouldn’t have been fooled by you for a moment, Fish. There’s no subtlety in you whatsoever.”

  “You don’t mince your words, do you, Potter?” retorted Edgar. “I’d have been a darn sight more convinci
ng than you. Your only attempt at undercover work was as a customer at a pie shop.”

  “And I played the part well.”

  “Not too difficult given your generous girth.”

  “Better a wide girth than a sheep’s head.”

  “Oh, I have a sheep’s head, do I? Well, I think you should go and boil your head, and —”

  “Edgar! Frederick!” I interrupted. “There is no need to argue like schoolboys.”

  “He started it!” said Edgar.

  “What’s all this noise about?” asked Mr Sherman as he marched into the newsroom, leaving the door to slam behind him once again.

  “Fish told me to boil my head, sir!” protested Frederick.

  “Not a bad idea,” replied Mr Sherman. “Where have you got to with the Forster story, Fish?”

  “It’s going reasonably well, though for some reason Blakely of the Yard asked Miss Green to do some work for him on it.”

  “Is that so?” asked Mr Sherman, turning to me.

  I explained what had happened at the mortgage interview with Mr Chakravarty.

  “I can’t say that I like Blakely dragging you off on a whim to undertake investigations for him,” said Mr Sherman with a scowl.

  “I wasn’t doing his work for him, I was merely assisting with a task he was unable to carry out himself.”

  “But you’re not even working on the Forster story. I object to his using my staff in this manner; it’s akin to my asking a detective from Scotland Yard to report on a news story.”

  “You should do that, sir,” said Edgar.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You should ask a police officer to write a news story for the Morning Express.”

  “What a ridiculous suggestion, Fish. It’s difficult enough getting my own staff to do what they’re supposed to.”

  Edgar’s face coloured.

  “What’s your update on the Forsters?”

  “The police are looking for the gang which broke into their home.”

  “That’s the same update we had yesterday. Anything else?”