The Bloomsbury Murder (Augusta Peel Mysteries Book 3), page 1
THE BLOOMSBURY MURDER
An Augusta Peel Mystery Book 3
EMILY ORGAN
Copyright © 2022 by Emily Organ
All rights reserved.
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Emily Organ has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publisher, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Contents
Also by Emily Organ
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
The End
Historical Note
Thank you
The Penny Green Series
The Churchill & Pemberley Series
Also by Emily Organ
Augusta Peel Series:
Death in Soho
Murder in the Air
The Bloomsbury Murder
Penny Green Series:
Limelight
The Rookery
The Maid’s Secret
The Inventor
Curse of the Poppy
The Bermondsey Poisoner
An Unwelcome Guest
Death at the Workhouse
The Gang of St Bride’s
Murder in Ratcliffe
The Egyptian Mystery
Churchill & Pemberley Series:
Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel
Murder in Cold Mud
Puzzle in Poppleford Wood
Trouble in the Churchyard
Wheels of Peril
The Poisoned Peer
Fiasco at the Jam Factory
Christmas Calamity at the Vicarage (novella)
Chapter 1
It was dark when Elizabeth Thackeray stepped into Gordon Square. The sound of wind-whipped trees swiftly replaced the noise of Bloomsbury’s traffic. As a gust surged through the branches, Elizabeth was reminded of waves crashing onto the shore. Above her, clouds scurried across the full moon.
The path was a pale ribbon ahead of her. Bare rosebushes and leafless shrubs lay hidden in the darkness, biding their time until spring arrived. Elizabeth liked to sit and sketch here during the summer months, inhaling the sweet scent of sun-warmed flowers, but the winter months were no less pleasurable. She enjoyed the wildness of the square, with the fearsome wind tugging at her breath and the moon sporadically lighting her way like the revolving beam of a lighthouse.
It wasn’t yet six o’clock but the weather seemed to be urging Elizabeth home to her comfortable room and a supper of warm soup and bread.
Lights flickered in the windows overlooking the square, reminding her she wasn’t out in the wilderness but in the middle of London. That was why she loved Bloomsbury. Its green squares provided her with solace and respite from the bustle of the city until she was ready to return to it again.
Elizabeth was halfway through the square when she felt a chill at the nape of her neck.
Is there someone close by?
She turned to look behind her but saw only dark foliage and pale-grey grass. Turning back to her route, Elizabeth reluctantly quickened her step. She didn’t want to walk any faster – she wanted to savour this place before she found herself back out on the street again – but something was making her hurry. Perhaps it was her overactive imagination. Or perhaps it was something else.
The exit from the square was about twenty yards ahead of her. Elizabeth paid less attention to the wind and the moon as she moved, and instead focused on the gate in the railings.
The moment she felt a hand on her shoulder, her breath left her. Instinctively, she tried to run but she was knocked off balance. Her bag fell from her shoulder and her spectacles slipped.
A shadowy figure loomed to her right.
“Get away!” she cried. She was still stumbling, but hadn’t yet fallen to the ground. Another push came and she tumbled onto the grass.
This is my last chance to get away.
Elizabeth had no idea where her strength or impulse came from, but she sprung to her feet just as the figure lunged at her, then ran as fast as she could. Her bag, which contained her precious books and sketchbook, was left behind.
Her legs pounding, she fled to the gate at a pace she had never imagined possible. She had no breath left to scream or shout; all she could do was get herself to safety.
Chapter 2
A tall, bespectacled man in a grey overcoat and bowler hat was waiting for Augusta when she arrived at her bookshop the following morning.
“It says on your door that you open at nine,” he said.
“Yes, that’s right.”
He checked his watch. “It’s a minute past.”
“I must be running a minute late. Thank you for being so patient.” She rested her birdcage on the ground and pulled a set of keys out of her handbag to unlock the door.
“I might not be so patient next time.” He peered at the yellow bird in the cage. “Is that a budgerigar?”
“A canary.”
“You bring it with you each day, do you?”
“Not it. He. He’s called Sparky. And yes, I do. He has lots of fun in the shop and the customers seem to like him.” Augusta opened the door, picked up the cage and stepped inside.
She flicked on the lights and placed Sparky’s cage on the counter while the grey-coated customer browsed the shelves.
Augusta’s shop had been open for two weeks. Numerous shelves of second-hand books adorned the walls and a well-arranged display had been positioned in the bow window. A wooden staircase led up to a galleried storey above the shop floor. Out the back, several boxes of books were waiting to be repaired in the workshop before she could put them out for sale. It was a time-consuming business and Augusta had been working late into the evenings in an attempt to keep on top of things.
Her customer appeared to be content for the time being. She took off her coat and popped it onto a shelf beneath the counter, then pulled an envelope out of her handbag.
Augusta had met the postman on the stairs as she was leaving her flat that morning and he had handed her an official-looking letter. She examined her typed name and address on the front. The postmark was from the west end of London, so the letter hadn’t travelled far. Who can it be from?
“What have you got in the way of Dickens?” asked the customer before she had a chance to find out.
“You can see them over there on shelf, under the letter ‘D’.”
“I meant ones I haven’t read.”
How should I know which ones you have and haven’t read?
Augusta took a deep breath before replying. She found it a struggle to be polite to customers at times. “The books on that shelf are all the ones I have by Dickens at the moment. Are there any other authors you’re interested in?”
“I’ll have a look.”
Deciding to leave him to it, Augusta opened the envelope and unfolded the letter. It was on headed paper bearing the name of a law firm: Bewick, Palmer and Curran.
Dear Mrs Peel,
I kindly request your assistance in the case of a missing person. A client of mine and his wife are concerned about the wellbeing of their daughter. They have received no word from her for six months, and they believe her to be residing in London at the present time.
My client requests that I find someone capable of discovering her whereabouts, and I would therefore appreciate any assistance you might be able to render in regard to this matter.
I should be grateful if you would call at my offices at your earliest convenience.
The letter was signed by a solicitor named Thomas Bewick.
“What about Jane Austen?” asked the grey-coated customer.
Augusta endeavoured to shift her mind from the contents of the letter to this latest book request. r />
“Jane Austen?”
“Yes. Haven’t you heard of her?”
“Of course I’ve heard of her. Which of her novels have you read?”
“None.”
In which case, if you look under ‘A’ on the shelves, you should find copies of Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice there.”
She glanced down at the letter again. How did a solicitor get hold of my contact details? And why does he think I might be able to help him?
“These copies look rather old,” commented the customer.
“All the books in this shop are second-hand,” Augusta replied. “I’ve repaired them as best as I can, but any wear and tear is reflected in the price.”
The grey-coated man lifted Sense and Sensibility from the shelf and examined it closely.
Augusta would have to visit the lawyer to find out more, but she was reluctant to commit herself to any additional work. She was busy with her shop. In fact, she felt it a little impertinent that a lawyer should write and ask her for assistance in the first place. She had never advertised her investigative services, nor had she ever suggested to anyone that she would be interested in undertaking more detective work. She hoped her friend, Detective Inspector Philip Fisher, hadn’t recommended her. Surely he would have asked my permission first.
She didn’t like the manner in which the solicitor had assumed she would carry out this work, yet his request was rather difficult to ignore. What if some harm has come to the missing daughter? Augusta felt instant sympathy for her parents.
“Walter Scott?” asked the customer.
“You didn’t like the look of Sense and Sensibility?”
“I prefer a bit more adventure when I'm reading.”
“Have you checked under the letter ‘S’ on the shelves?”
“I couldn’t find it.”
Augusta suppressed a sigh as she pointed to the relevant shelf on the opposite wall. The customer nodded and strolled toward it. Augusta willed him to hurry along so she could start on her repairs in the workshop.
“Ivanhoe,” commented the grey-coated man. “I’ve always wanted to read that.”
“It’s a good story.”
He pulled the book off the shelf and brought it over to the counter. “It’s quite a nice bookshop you’ve got here, isn’t it?”
The dour man’s compliment surprised her.
“Thank you.”
“Opposite the British Museum, too. You must get quite a bit of passing trade.”
“I do.” She had greatly benefited from her friend Lady Hereford’s efforts to negotiate an affordable rent on the building. “You’d like to buy Ivanhoe, then?”
“Yes, I would. And once I’ve finished it, I’ll come back and see if you’ve got any more Dickens in.”
“Thank you. I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter 3
Augusta decided to close her shop at lunchtime to make a short excursion up to the offices of Bewick, Palmer and Curran, which were located in Cavendish Square, just north of Oxford Street. The building looked as though it had once been a Regency townhouse. The lower storey was clad in white stone, while the upper floors had large sash windows with elegant stone surrounds.
Thomas Bewick’s fashionable young secretary showed Augusta up to his office on the first floor. The solicitor was seated behind a large, sleek desk facing tall windows that overlooked Cavendish Square. Heavy-framed pictures and frosted-glass mirrors hung on the walls, and two plum-coloured sofas were facing each other in front of an ornate fireplace.
Thomas rose to his feet and greeted Augusta warmly. He looked to be about fifty-five, with tousled grey hair. His eyes were a sparkling icy blue and he had a handsome square jaw. He wore an impeccably tailored suit, and the blue silk handkerchief in his chest pocket matched his tie perfectly.
He strolled out from behind his desk and gestured for Augusta to sit on one of the plum sofas. “What a prompt response to my letter!” His voice was deep and mellifluous. “You must only have received it this morning.” He hitched his trousers up at the knee and took a seat on the sofa opposite her, one arm resting along the back.
“Yes, I did.”
He smiled. He wasn’t as serious and stuffy as she had expected. Perhaps she had been wrong to assume that all solicitors were a little dull.
“You must be wondering why on earth I wrote to you.”
“I am. How did you hear about me?”
“I had dinner with a friend last week and we were discussing the case of Robert Jeffreys, that chap who was murdered on his airship. I was fascinated to hear all about the lady detective who had worked on the case.”
“Do I happen to know your friend?”
“I don’t think so. He’s another boring old lawyer, I’m afraid. But he followed the airship murder case in the newspapers and was rather intrigued to learn about your work.”
Augusta deemed it necessary to manage the solicitor’s expectations. “The thing is, Mr Bewick, I run a bookshop. I’m not a private detective.”
He gave a puzzled frown. “Have I summoned the wrong Mrs Peel? There can’t be many Augusta Peels in London.”
“I’m sure there aren’t. You’re not mistaken about that, and I was involved in Mr Jeffreys’s case, but I mainly repair books and run a bookshop. I’ve never advertised myself as a private detective.”
Thomas ran his fingers through his grey hair. “Then I must apologise. I was under the impression that searching for missing people was work you’d be happy to undertake.”
“I’m sure I would if I were a proper private detective. However, I’m not.”
“Oh dear.” He leaned forward. “Then I suppose I’ve wasted your time.”
“Not necessarily. Having read your letter, I must say that this missing woman case intrigues me. Who is she?”
“Catherine Frankland-Russell, the eldest daughter of Lord and Lady Frankland-Russell. I’ll show you a photograph.” He sprung up from his seat to fetch an envelope from his desk. “Here you are,” he said, handing it to her.
Augusta pulled the photograph out of the envelope and eyed the attractive young woman with dark, bobbed hair and wide, mournful eyes. The photograph had been taken in a studio, with only her head and shoulders visible. She was glancing over one shoulder at the camera, her face unsmiling. From what Augusta could see of her dress, it was made of diaphanous material with sequins at the shoulder.
“She’s twenty-one years old and her parents are extremely worried about her,” said Thomas. “They haven’t heard anything from her for six months.”
“What was her last known address?”
“Cheyne Walk in Chelsea. I called at the place, but the current resident has heard nothing of her.” He returned to his sofa and sat down again. “Nobody knows where she is. That is to say, I haven’t found anybody who does.”
“And her parents are sure she’s still in London?”
“They’re inclined to think so. I suppose she may have moved away, but they tell me she’s fond of the city and can’t imagine her going elsewhere. The family used to live in London but recently bought a place in Shropshire. Catherine lived with them there for a while, but soon returned. Then the communication between them waned and they haven’t received any answer to their last few letters. They don’t even know whether she’s on the telephone or not.”
“Is there any suggestion that she might be in danger?”
