Penny Green series Box Set 2 Page 7

  “There hasn’t been any progress, has there?”

  “Yes, there has.”

  “If there had been I think you would share it with me, Inspector. Detectives often feel a sense of pride when they make a breakthrough in a case and usually cannot resist sharing their news.”

  “Detectives in the Metropolitan Police, perhaps.”

  “So you are no closer to catching Mr Geller’s murderer than when I spoke to you last?”

  “I haven’t said that.”

  “But I have, and I shall commit it to paper in our next edition.”

  “You need to march into Old Jewry and take charge of that medical school museum case,” I barked at James, still fuming. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a police inspector as cantankerous as Chief Inspector Stroud!”

  “You know that it’s impossible for me to do so, Penny,” said James, sipping his stout. We were seated at our usual table in the Museum Tavern. James’ shirt sleeves were rolled up and his tie pin was topped with a small gold star.

  I removed my spectacles and rubbed at my eyes, which felt dusty from the warm streets that day.

  “Inspector Stroud hasn’t made any advances with the case,” I said. “That is why he’s refusing to share any information with me. He’s done nothing about Richard Geller’s murder. I wish I could place an infernal machine beneath his chair to inflame his languorous derrière!”

  “Mind your French, Miss Green.”

  “Does it not anger you?”

  “Perhaps not quite to the extent to which it angers you, Penny, but yes it does disappoint me when a case appears to be floundering.”

  “It’s more than floundering. I don’t think the inspector particularly cares about it. A poor fellow has lost his life! Can’t you do anything about it?”

  “No, I can’t. The City of London police force is an entirely separate entity from the Metropolitan.”

  “But it makes no sense! Why should the City of London have a separate police force? The Metropolitan force looks after all of London, spreading from… how big is it?”

  “Approximately fifteen miles in each direction from Charing Cross.”

  “It’s enormous! And then there is a tiny little bit in the middle, the City of London, which has its own separate force! It’s nonsensical and also rather inconvenient. What’s so funny?”

  James quickly removed the smile from his face. “I’m sorry. Nothing’s funny.”

  “But you were laughing. What were you laughing about?”

  “You.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “I don’t know why. It’s funny seeing you so angry sometimes.”

  “Oh, is it now?”

  “Penny…” He tried to adopt a soothing tone. “The world is full of geographical anomalies, largely born of tradition or a historical conflict of some sort. Take Jerusalem as an example.”

  “Jerusalem? What does Jerusalem have to do with the City of London police?”

  “Very well, let’s forget about Jerusalem.”

  James took a large gulp of stout and allowed his eyes to linger on mine. I smiled, feeling sure that he preferred to see me without my spectacles for a change.

  “Your telegram requesting this meeting suggested you had a letter to show me,” he said. “What’s that all about?”

  “Oh, it’s here.” I pulled the letter out of my bag and handed it to him. “I found it inside Simon Borthwick’s book in the reading room.”

  James read it through with interest.

  “This implies there is some truth to Borthwick’s claim that someone was attempting to undermine his work,” I added.

  “Do you know if there is any truth to what the letter says?” asked James. “Who is Hugo Bannister?”

  “He was a Scottish inventor who pioneered work on the vacuum lamp.”

  “Which is what?”

  “The electric lamp. The vacuum keeps the level of oxygen low enough so that the filament glows. Too much oxygen would cause it to catch fire.”

  James raised his eyebrows. “You’re quite the scientist, Penny.”

  “I’m afraid not. Fortunately, Mr Edwards explains it all quite well in his notes. It appears that Simon Borthwick used Mr Bannister’s work in the patent for his incandescent lamp. Apparently, the carbonised cotton filament was a particular feature of Mr Bannister’s lamp, and Mr Borthwick supposedly stole it. I prefer to think of him as having borrowed it because I recall him telling me that his work built upon the work of others. A number of them have been working to the same end so I imagine conflict over their work is common. Mr Borthwick was involved in legal action against Thomas Edison.”

  “It seems that someone felt aggrieved by what Simon Borthwick had done,” said James. “Perhaps Bannister can tell you more.”

  “He died in New York last year having gone to work for Edison.”

  “A natural death?”

  “It would seem so. The letter said that he died penniless, doesn’t it? I can imagine him living a pauper’s life in a miserable part of the city.”

  “It can’t have gone well with Edison, in that case.”

  “It doesn’t appear to have done. Donald Repton didn’t mention any of this Hugo Bannister business to me. Surely he must be aware of any such feud.”

  “It’s difficult to know without asking him directly.”

  “So the question is, what do we do now?”

  “You’re using the word we again, Penny. I cannot involve myself in this. No crime has been committed other than suicide.”

  “And you can’t investigate Richard Geller’s murder either.”

  “You know I can’t. I should like to help you, but…”

  “There’s no need to explain. I understand. At least I know who the mysterious Lillian is that Borthwick mentions in his letter. She’s married to Borthwick’s colleague, Jeffrey Maynell. I’m awaiting a possible meeting with her. I also wish to speak to another colleague of Borthwick’s, Jack Copeland. I have met him briefly a couple of times.”

  “Goodness, you’re quite determined about all this, aren’t you? You’re putting Chief Inspector Stroud and his languorous derrière to shame.”

  “That wouldn’t be difficult.”

  James finished off his stout. “I cannot directly involve myself in these cases, Penny, but if you need someone to listen and suggest ideas I am always happy to help you.”

  “Thank you, James. I appreciate you helping me. And thank you for coming to meet me here this evening.”

  “Try keeping me away,” he replied with a smile.

  Chapter 15

  Upon enquiring at the works in Southwark, I was told that I would find Jack Copeland at the construction site in Kensington. The area was filled with scaffolding, carts and men in caps and dirty shirts. Walls of red brick rose up from the chaos and I made my way toward one of the few completed buildings I could see: the Electric Lighting Station.

  It was a relief to enter its shade. Within it was a staircase, which led down to basement level. I struggled to see the steps as my eyes slowly accustomed to the gloom.

  A man in an oil-streaked work coat was examining a steam engine in the large subterranean room by the light of a paraffin lamp. Another man was hammering away at the boiler.

  “Mr Copeland?” I called out.

  The man in the work coat turned slowly to look at me with his bulbous eyes. His dark, drooping whiskers gave him a morose appearance.

  “Good morning, Miss Green. Have you come to marvel at our generating station?” His speech was muffled by his long moustache. “It’s one of the first in the world to supply domestic premises.”

  I didn’t correct him with my true reason for being there, but instead displayed a look of keen interest in the hope that this would make him amenable to my questions when the time came.

  “It’s a very exciting project, Mr Copeland. This here is one of the engines?”

  “Yes. One of seven which will be installed here. As you can imagine, it’s quite a task
getting the parts down the steps and into this room. Seven engines for seven generators.”

  “That sounds like it should be a popular rhyme, doesn’t it?” I commented cheerily.

  He gave me a blank look.

  “The generators will be positioned here.” He gestured toward one end of the concrete floor. “And we’ll have belts running from the engines on this side to the generators on that side. It’ll be quite a spectacle when they’re all running at full power.”

  “And they’ll make quite a din, too, I should imagine.”

  “We’re putting in a three-wire DC electrical supply.”

  “Direct current? Mr Repton explained that to me.”

  He glanced at my hands and frowned. “Don’t you need a notebook to write everything down in?”

  “Ah yes, it’s just here.” I pulled a notebook and pencil out of my carpet bag.

  “Mr Repton told me the number of volts employed, but I’m afraid I have forgotten it,” I said.

  “Two hundred.”

  I wrote this down.

  “You’ll probably want to see the pump house next,” said Jack Copeland. “It’s being constructed by the London Hydraulic Power Company to power service lifts.”

  “Service lifts? How interesting.”

  “I understand the water pressure will be supplied at four hundred pounds per square inch.”

  I wrote this down, unsure of what it meant and reluctant to ask for an explanation.

  “It’s rather saddening, isn’t it, that Mr Borthwick is not here to see the progress on this pioneering project?” I said.

  “It is,” Mr Copeland replied.

  I waited for some further words, but none came.

  “How long did you know him?” I asked.

  “We met as undergraduates at Imperial College.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  He sighed. “It would be over twenty years ago now.”

  “And you were personal friends as well as colleagues?”

  “Not particularly. But I’d rather discuss the Kensington Court project. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Well yes, it is. There’s just one small matter I would like to ask you about if it’s not too much trouble.”

  He scowled. “Is it about Kensington Court?”

  “No. It’s about this letter.” I retrieved the page I had found in Simon Borthwick’s book from my bag and passed it to him.

  “It was written by an anonymous writer who accuses Simon Borthwick of stealing the ideas of Hugo Bannister,” I said. “I found it in Mr Borthwick’s book, A Practical Treatise on Electric Illumination.”

  Jack Copeland’s brow furrowed as he read it. “How peculiar,” he remarked. “It was just sitting in the book, was it?”

  “Yes. Is the author of the letter correct? Did Simon Borthwick steal Hugo Bannister’s ideas?”

  “Well, I’m not sure they were Bannister’s ideas to begin with. Many people are working independently on the light bulb, and it’s natural that comparable ideas should occur to similar minds.”

  “So the carbonised cotton filament in Mr Borthwick’s patent for his incandescent lamp wasn’t stolen from Mr Bannister?”

  Jack Copeland raised an eyebrow. “Stolen is the wrong word.”

  “So your view, Mr Copeland, is that Mr Borthwick did nothing wrong?”

  “We’re all working with the same science, Miss Green, and the materials which could be used for an effective filament are limited. It’s rather difficult to prove whether someone did or didn’t steal ideas from another. However, egos are fragile, and some chaps grow resentful while others become downright angry.”

  “Do you know anyone who might have been angry with Mr Borthwick?”

  “No, I don’t. I tend to stay well away from it all. I don’t have the temperament for disagreement or confrontation.”

  He handed the letter back to me and I stowed it safely in my bag.

  Mr Copeland had given little away, and I was struggling to ascertain what his relationship with Borthwick had been like.

  “It’s a rather calculated act, isn’t it, to put a letter criticising Mr Borthwick inside a copy of his book in the British Library?” I said. “The author of that letter must bear him a great deal of resentment. I don’t suppose Mr Borthwick ever knew about it. Did you hear what he wrote in his letter before he died?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard the gist of it. It sounds as though he was rather embittered.”

  “I think he sounded fearful.”

  “No, Simon wasn’t the sort to be frightened.”

  “He said he would rather die by his own hand than by someone else’s.”

  “Ah, now that’s melodrama. He was terribly melodramatic.”

  “So he was exaggerating the perceived threat?”

  “Not purposefully, I wouldn’t have thought. After all, the man took his own life. But Simon had been known to make much ado about nothing. Sadly, he didn’t have anyone to talk some sense into him on this occasion.”

  “You believe he could have been talked out of the suicide?”

  “I think so. Somehow he was seized by a fit of irrationality and caused a fatal wound to himself.” Jack Copeland seemed remarkably composed as he discussed the death of his colleague.

  “Do you think the persecution he describes in his letter was less serious than he believed it to be?”

  He wiped his hands on an oily rag. “Success is a double-edged sword, Miss Green. While one can expect praise, one must also expect criticism. Now I’ve already said too much on the matter and you’ll get no more from me, I’m afraid. Instead, let me tell you a bit more about the copper strip distribution system we’re installing here. You’ll need all the details for your article in the Morning Express.”

  Chapter 16

  “Mrs Fish has taken quite a shine to you, Penny,” said Edgar. “She described you as a humorous and clever woman.”

  “That’s very kind of her. She is too flattering by far.”

  “She would like to invite you to dinner with us one evening. The only problem I can foresee with the plan is that we don’t know who to invite as your guest. Your mother, perhaps?”

  “Thank you, Edgar. My mother lives in Derbyshire and cannot abide trains. It’s been some years since she travelled to London.”

  “Wasn’t there that chap who worked in the reading room?” asked Frederick.

  “Oh yes, him!” said Edgar. “The bookish fellow. I forget his name. Come on, Miss Green, help us out. You’re courting him, aren’t you?”

  “I believe you’re referring to Mr Edwards, and no, I’m not courting him. He is merely an acquaintance.”

  “Who else could accompany you?”

  “My sister, perhaps.”

  “The one with the bicycle?”

  “Yes.”

  Edgar pulled a sceptical face. “I’m not sure that she and Mrs Fish would hit it off.”

  “Did your wife mention whether she had heard from her friend Lillian Maynell about the possibility of my meeting her?”

  “Oh yes, that was the other thing. She has indeed, and I think Lillian would like to meet with you. There needs to be a bit of secrecy involved because the husband, Maynell, might not like his wife discussing her previous suitor.”

  “I respect her need for privacy; husbands can be terribly overprotective. It’s the reason I haven’t taken one.”

  Edgar laughed. “But doing so would make it rather easier to invite you to dinner parties!”

  “Perhaps, but I consider that a small price to pay.”

  “Anyway, Miss Green, I take offence at your suggestion that husbands are overprotective. I can’t say I’m an overprotective man at all,” said Edgar.

  “I am,” said Frederick.

  “Perhaps I could meet Mrs Maynell and your wife for lunch somewhere,” I suggested. “I can recommend The Holborn Restaurant.”

  “I’m sure that will do very well,” said Edgar. “I shall ask her to confirm the arrang
ements. Oh, look! I’ve just had another idea as to whom we can invite as your guest to our dinner party!”

  I heard the newsroom door close and turned to see James walking towards us.

  “A dinner party, Mr Fish? That sounds excellent,” he said, taking off his bowler hat. “Good morning, Penny.”

  I returned his smile.

  “Capital! I shall make the arrangements,” said Edgar.

  “Inspector Blakely cannot be my companion at your dinner party,” I said. “It would be highly inappropriate.”

  James gave me a downcast glance.

  “Oh yes, I forgot!’ said Edgar. “You are engaged to be married, aren’t you, Inspector? Never mind, Miss Green. Perhaps it will have to be that chap from the library after all. What can we do for you, Inspector?”

  “I’m here to ask Miss Green if she would like to accompany me to the medical school at St Bartholomew’s Hospital.”

  My heart skipped. “Has there been a development?” I asked.

  “The Yard has been approached to assist.”

  “I thought Mr Geller’s murder was a matter for the City of London police,” I said as we left the Morning Express building and made our way towards Ludgate Hill. The bright sunlight made me squint. “Has Inspector Stroud relented and asked for your help?”

  “No, but Richard Geller’s father has,” replied James. “He is Rabbi Geller of the West London Synagogue. He’s friendly with the commissioner, and is understandably upset and frustrated that no progress has been made with regard to his son’s dreadful murder.”

  “And the commissioner has asked you to investigate? That’s excellent news, James.”

  “It is for us, but I don’t think Chief Inspector Stroud will take kindly to my involvement.”

  We found Chief Inspector Stroud and Mr Kurtz waiting for us at the medical school museum. The inspector scowled as we entered the room, while pale-faced Kurtz gave me a libidinous smile, which I ignored.

  “I’ll be surprised if you spot something I’ve missed, Blakely,” said Chief Inspector Stroud. “I can’t tell you how many times we have been over the events of that day and searched this room.”