Curse of the Poppy (Penny Green Series Book 5) Read online

  “Francis has every right to withdraw his funding. Mr Fox-Stirling was horribly rude to him.”

  “Do you think he will?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t. We discussed the possibility of finding someone to replace Mr Fox-Stirling, but I don’t think Francis will withdraw his money altogether. He remains very keen for the search to go ahead.”

  “We have you to thank for that, Penelope.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because of his deep affection for you.”

  I groaned in reply.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t deserve his affection, and I’ve told him so.”

  “You said that to him? Well now the search for Father may truly hang in the balance. You can’t say such things to an admirer, Penelope! What on earth made you say that?”

  “I simply spoke the truth. Francis is an honourable man and I told him that. I respect him too much to deceive him.”

  “What could you possibly wish to deceive him about?”

  “I don’t love him, Ellie.”

  “That’s not so terrible. True love can take time to develop.”

  “So you’ve told me before, but I’m not sure that I believe it.”

  “It happened to me. Besides, it really doesn’t matter that you don’t consider yourself to be in love with him, as he hasn’t asked you to marry him. Or has he?”

  “No, he hasn’t. I told him I have no wish to marry.”

  “Oh Penelope, you didn’t!” Eliza slapped her thigh in indignation. “How could you? I wish I had given you some instruction on how to conduct yourself in conversations like these. You have said all the wrong things.”

  “Wrong according to whom?”

  “It’s just not the done thing. A lady cannot speak her mind in such a fashion. She must show that she’s flattered by his attentions and at least give the chap some hope.”

  “Hope for what?”

  “Marriage.”

  “But I have no wish to marry him, Ellie!”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I’ve already told you, I don’t love him.”

  “Do you really know what love feels like, Penelope? I sincerely hope you’re not expecting the sort of love you read about in poems and novels, because it’s not like that in real life.”

  “I realise that.”

  “So perhaps you love him after all, you just don’t realise it yet. That’s how I felt with George. In fact, it wasn’t until after Fenella was born that I discovered how I truly felt about him.”

  The thought depressed me. “I’m not as naive as you think, Ellie, I’m thirty-five. I’m three years older than you, remember?”

  “And a spinster.”

  “That doesn’t mean I know nothing of love!”

  Eliza gave an exasperated laugh. “I hope you do marry one day, Penelope, because you will look back on this time and realise how little you knew about affairs of the heart.”

  I felt a sudden wrath burning in my chest.

  “Don’t patronise me, Ellie. It’s possible that I know more about it than you and your passionless husband!”

  “Penelope! How dare you —?”

  I ignored my sister’s shocked expression, allowing my words to flow out in anger.

  “I know what it is to love someone with an intensity that cannot be quenched by reason or instruction; a passion beyond my power to control. It’s the type of love I wish did not exist; a passion that can never be requited. Do you know what that feels like? Or do you only know the comfortable acceptance of a rather dull man with whom you’ve been ordained to spend the rest of your days?”

  Eliza rose to her feet. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that —”

  “Why not? You think it perfectly acceptable to discuss my marital status at any time of your choosing. Year in, year out I have had to listen to your views on possible suitors and my incapacity for knowing my own mind. It’s high time I asked you to listen to something similar. Have you ever considered that you didn’t know your own mind when you married George?’

  Eliza’s mouth hung open.

  “Of course you haven’t,” I continued, “because to consider such a thing might lead to an acknowledgement that you made a mistake, and that would be too dreadful for words, wouldn’t it? I pity you being married to a man who yearns to live in a bygone era and refuses to allow his wife to pursue an employment of her own. Have you ever considered the irony of being married to a man who opposes women’s suffrage when it’s one of the biggest causes you champion? Is there anything you and your husband agree on?”

  I stopped when I saw a tear rolling down my sister’s cheek.

  “Ellie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… Here.” I dashed over to a drawer, grabbed a clean handkerchief and held it out to her.

  “I’m quite all right, thank you, Penelope. I have my own.” She dabbed at her face with a lace handkerchief, her voice cool. “Have you finished what you wanted to say?”

  “Yes, but I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was angry and… yesterday evening was difficult, not only because of the dinner but also because Francis hinted at the question of marriage in the hansom cab and I’m really rather tired of discussing it. I didn’t mean those things I said about George. It wasn’t kind of me.”

  “This intense, unrequited love you speak of,” said Eliza. “It’s the inspector, isn’t it?”

  I nodded sheepishly.

  “I knew it,” she said, folding up her handkerchief. “We all knew it. I suspect poor Francis does too.”

  “Which is why I told him he deserves someone better than me.”

  “And you’re right, he does.”

  “I’m not sure why he persists.”

  “Because he loves you, Penelope. And next month Inspector Blakely is to marry someone else. You need to prepare yourself and decide what you’re going to do about it.”

  Chapter 42

  “There really is no use in me working on the Forster story any more, sir,” said Edgar as we sat side by side in Mr Sherman’s cluttered office. “Miss Green has journeyed off with it like a speeding express train —”

  “That’s not quite true, Edgar,” I protested. “I was working on the Alfred Holland story when I happened across a connection between him and the Forsters.”

  “And now Blakely’s firmly on the case I have no chance whatsoever, do I? Everyone knows what a close acquaintance the two have.”

  I glanced at the clock on the wall of Mr Sherman’s office. It was almost eleven o’clock and I hadn’t yet heard from James about his proposed meeting at Emma Holland’s home. It was unlike him to be tardy.

  “If I understand you correctly, Fish,” said Mr Sherman, “you’re telling me that you no longer wish to work on the Forster story.”

  “Sir, I don’t want you to consider me an idle fellow. I would gladly keep hold of the Forster story but I’m feeling the effect of Miss Green’s elbows, metaphorically speaking.”

  “You don’t half mince your words, Fish,” said the editor. “What’s your point?”

  “As the Forsters and Holland may now be considered part of the same case it makes sense for me to have the Holland story as well, or for the whole lot to be handed over to her.”

  “By her, you mean Miss Green, I presume.”

  “Yes, sir. Otherwise there will be too much jostling of the elbows between us.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned elbows, Fish. I get the picture.”

  “Mr Sherman,” I said, “can I please have the story? I have done considerable work on it so far and I’ve also struck up a friendship with Emma Holland, Alfred’s sister. In addition to that I’m on good terms with Mr Mawson, who has become central to this case and have already met with him twice —”

  “I’ve heard enough, Miss Green, you can have the story,” said Mr Sherman brusquely, looking through some papers on his desk as though keen to focus on something else.

  “Really, sir? Oh,
thank you!” I felt my heart skip.

  “But sir!” protested Edgar. “What about all the hard work I’ve done on the story?”

  “What hard work, Fish?”

  “I’ve been out and about, as you asked.”

  “That’s the problem, Fish, I had to ask you to do so. You should be able to undertake your work independently. I can’t deny that Miss Green has trodden on your toes on this story, but I can’t fault the woman for going out there and getting the work done.”

  Edgar glared at me and I occupied myself with rubbing at an ink stain on my finger.

  “Go and get on with it, the both of you,” said Mr Sherman.

  I stood to my feet.

  “But what am I to work on instead?” whined Edgar.

  “I need a thousand words on the proposed rescue of General Gordon from Khartoum,” said the editor. “Sink your teeth into that.”

  The speaking tube beside his desk whistled, and Mr Sherman answered it gruffly.

  I returned to the newsroom happy that I could continue with the Forster and Holland stories uninterrupted. I had hoped a telegram from James would have arrived while I was in Mr Sherman’s office, but when I went to the telegraph room and asked the messenger boy if anything had turned up he replied that it had not.

  I returned to my desk and wondered what could have detained James. I thought of our meeting with Mr Mawson and struggled to believe the man had arranged the three murders. No one else was linked to them all as he was. Surely he had played a part in it. Had Mawson sent James the severed finger?

  I was interrupted by a visitor to the newsroom, but it wasn’t the boy from the telegraph room, as I had hoped. It was Emma Holland, and she appeared flustered.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, trying to guide her toward a chair.

  She shrugged me off, glancing warily at Frederick and Edgar.

  “Shall we speak outside in the corridor?” I suggested.

  She nodded.

  “We’ve been robbed,” she said breathlessly as soon as we were out of earshot. “I’ve just returned from a friend’s house in Hertfordshire having spent the night away from home. Someone has robbed us in the night!”

  I immediately thought of the gang that had targeted the Forsters’ home.

  “I hope nobody has been hurt,” I said.

  “The servants slept through it, but the burglar ransacked my room. I don’t know what would have happened had I been there!” Her hands trembled and fidgeted as she spoke.

  “It’s lucky you weren’t. What has been taken?”

  “Nothing valuable, that’s the strange thing. Whoever it was knew exactly what they were looking for.”

  “What was that?”

  “Alfred’s papers! His diaries and letters are all gone!”

  “Oh no, Emma, that’s terrible!”

  I thought of Mr Mawson. Had James or I mentioned to him that Alfred’s sister had the diaries? I couldn’t recall doing so. James had been keen to coax an admission of guilt from Mr Mawson without giving away too much information.

  “Who knew that you had them?” I asked Emma.

  “That’s the odd thing; hardly anyone!”

  “What about your cousin and her husband?”

  “I mentioned it to them, but only in passing. I hadn’t told my parents.”

  “So your cousin and her husband are the only people you’ve told.”

  “Apart from you, yes!” She wiped a trembling hand across her brow.

  “Would you like to sit down, Emma?”

  “No, I don’t need to sit! Have you told anyone about my brother’s diaries?”

  “Only Inspector Blakely of Scotland Yard. We found a connection between your brother and Mr and Mrs Forster, who were murdered a few weeks ago. We called on you yesterday to discuss it.”

  “Yes, Doris told me.”

  “Inspector Blakely was keen to see the diaries for himself.”

  “What’s the connection between Alfred and the Forsters?”

  “It’s Mr Mawson, the man your brother reported in Ghazipur for altering the forms. Remember?”

  “He knew all three of them?”

  I nodded. “Inspector Blakely and I met him yesterday and he confirmed to us that he had worked with your brother in Ghazipur, and that Alfred had reported him for his misdemeanour.”

  “Then he has to be the one who has taken the diaries!”

  “You would think so, wouldn’t you? However, I’m certain that neither Inspector Blakely nor myself mentioned them to him. That’s what’s so puzzling. I don’t think I’ve mentioned them to anyone apart from Inspector Blakely, and having worked on a few cases with him I trust the man implicitly. Perhaps he let slip to someone about the diaries, but I can’t think who.”

  “It must have been Mr Mawson,” said Emma.

  “He’s the only person I can think of who had a motive for the theft, but I don’t understand how Mr Mawson could have found out about the diaries unless Inspector Blakely went to see him again. That would be highly unlikely. Inspector Blakely had planned to visit you again this morning, Emma; in fact, we had both planned to do so. I’ve been waiting on a telegram from him to confirm a time but I’ve received nothing at all from him, which is highly unusual.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “I’m sure we can retrieve the diaries. Have you called the police?”

  “Yes, a constable from Holborn Division visited and took down the particulars, though I can’t say that he’s treating it as a great emergency seeing as my jewellery and other valuables were left undisturbed. He didn’t appear to think the theft of a few diaries was anything to worry about!”

  “Whoever took them must be trying to suppress their contents,” I said.

  “It could be the same person who wished to silence Alfred!”

  “It could well be.”

  Emma gave a shiver and began to pace the floor. “It frightens me to think that the man who killed Alfred may have been in my house! As soon as I discovered the burglary this morning I went out and bought a revolver. I have no wish to be murdered in my home like Mrs Forster. If anyone breaks into my house again they’ll pay for it with their life!”

  “Please be careful, Emma,” I said. The thought of her wielding a gun while in a heightened emotional state worried me. “You need to make the police at Holborn aware of how significant this burglary is. They need to speak to the detectives working on the case across the different divisions. Better still, they need to speak to Inspector Blakely. I’ll send him a telegram right away.”

  Chapter 43

  I tried to work in the reading room that afternoon but found it difficult to concentrate. Who had stolen Alfred Holland’s diaries? And why had I heard nothing from James? Emma had gone to Tottenham Court Road police station to explain to the inspector there about the possible connection between the theft and her brother’s murder.

  There was something meek and reserved about Francis’ manner as he approached, as if he felt embarrassed about our conversation in the cab a few evenings previously. I fixed a smile on my face and tried to pretend that it hadn’t occurred.

  “I wonder if I’ve been a bit uncharitable about Mr Fox-Stirling,” he whispered to me. “Although I’m keen to do what I can in the search for your father I understand, on reflection, why he might see my enthusiasm as interference. The old dog is rather set in his ways, I suppose.”

  He brushed his sandy hair away from his spectacles and the heated conversation with Eliza came back to my mind. Was it possible that I could ever find Francis attractive enough to marry him? I pushed the thought away and concentrated on the conversation.

  “I don’t think you’ve been at all uncharitable,” I replied. “I think your anger was quite justified. Eliza isn’t particularly happy with him either, but until we can find someone more suitable I suppose we’re stuck with the chap.”

  Francis sighed. “Yes, I suppose we are for now. Perhaps all explorers are difficult to work with. They’re
accustomed to relying on their own resources and abilities without much help from others, and they’re accustomed to making their own decisions.”

  “Perhaps my father was equally cantankerous to work with,” I suggested.

  “Surely not.”

  “I cannot pretend that he was perfect, Francis. These men have difficult decisions to make when they’re on their adventures.”

  I thought of the massacre Father had been caught up in when he had been forced to defend himself. I had read about the event in his diaries and it still made me uncomfortable; so uncomfortable, in fact, that the only person I’d discussed it with was Eliza.

  I glanced toward the door, hoping James might suddenly make an appearance as he had so often done in the past.

  “Is something bothering you, Penny?” Francis asked. He was quite astute in noticing when something was troubling me.

  “Do you remember researching a man named Mr Mawson for me?” I asked.

  He nodded in reply.

  “I think he may be a murderer.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I’ve discovered that he had a grievance with Alfred Holland, the poor chap who was shot in Limehouse. And he also knew the Forsters. He was the man I saw hanging about after Mrs Forster’s death. And now Alfred Holland’s diaries have gone missing.”

  “From where?”

  “They were stolen from the house of his sister, Emma Holland. She was trying to find out who might have borne him a grudge, and we discovered that Mr Mawson received a mention. I shall have to explain it all to you in detail at a later date. Suffice to say that after Inspector Blakely spoke to Mr Mawson the diaries were stolen. To make matters more frustrating the Holborn police aren’t treating the theft as a serious crime because they’re not fully aware of the circumstances. I’ve been trying to contact James but I’ve heard nothing from him. I may need to march down to Scotland Yard to find him.”

  I noticed Francis’ face darken at the mention of James.

  “Presumably he’s busy working on the case.”

  “I suppose he must be. He was meeting yesterday with suspected gang members who were arrested on suspicion of burgling the Forsters’ home. The trouble is, he received something horribly threatening and macabre in a package and I cannot help but worry about him.”