‘You think they knew each other?’
‘It’s possible.’
They sat in Philip’s office drinking tea. Augusta got up from her chair, walked over to the blackboard and wrote Dr Jackson’s name on it. ‘His real name is Daniel Collins,’ she said as she added the second name. ‘We know he tested a new remedy on a man called Stephen Allen. Mr Allen fell unwell and was admitted to hospital. It was found he’d suffered an overdose of cocaine.’ She turned to Philip. ‘What if there were more Mr Allens?’
‘More people who Dr Jackson tested his remedy on? There must have been.’
‘Perhaps Alexander Miller was one of them.’
‘He could have been. He took the blood purifier, and we know he was in Finchley at least once. But only Mr Allen was poisoned.’
‘He’s the only one we know about. But maybe there were others?’
‘Then we’d know about them too.’
‘Not if they didn’t survive.’
‘You think someone could have been fatally poisoned by Dr Jackson?’
Augusta nodded.
‘Alexander Miller?’
‘Yes. And Dr Jackson was so horrified about what happened that he covered up the death.’
‘That would take some covering up.’
‘It could have happened at his Finchley laboratory. There may have been no one else around at the time.’
‘But he would’ve had to dispose of Miller, too, without anyone finding out. It’s an interesting idea, Augusta. But I’ve no idea how you prove it.’
‘Me neither.’ She returned to her chair and sat down. ‘I feel quite puzzled by this. I feel like I’m getting close to the answer, but… it’s evading me. And it doesn’t help that Walter Ferguson’s article is being printed tomorrow.’
‘Ah yes.’ Philip took a sip of tea. ‘That is unfortunate.’
‘It’s more than unfortunate! It’s… oh, I don’t want to dwell on it! Ferguson wants me to worry about it and so I refuse to do so.’
Philip put down his cup and saucer. ‘You know who would be extremely useful in this case, don’t you, Augusta?’
‘Who?’
Philip got up from his chair and went over to the little shelf with one book on it.
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ said Augusta. ‘Sherlock Holmes.’
‘That’s right.’ He picked up The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. ‘He lived on Baker Street, didn’t he? If only we could call on him. I can picture myself standing in Baker Street at night, looking up at the light glowing from his window. And there his silhouette passes across the blind as he paces back and forth, contemplating his latest case.’
Augusta smiled. ‘Very poetic, Philip. Unfortunately he’s fictional.’
‘And more’s the pity. But perhaps we can think like him, Augusta.’
‘I don’t think anybody can think like Sherlock Holmes. Isn’t that why he was considered to be so brilliant?’
‘True. He was outwitted once, wasn’t he? By the singer and actress, Irene Adler. It’s in one of these stories.’ He leafed through the book. ‘A Scandal in Bohemia. That’s the one.’
‘Much as I wish Sherlock Holmes could help us, he can’t,’ said Augusta. ‘So we have to come up with some ideas ourselves.’
Chapter 52
Augusta woke before dawn and lay awake for some time, angry with herself for allowing Walter Ferguson to upset her this much. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. But it did. And that was why she felt upset. The very last thing she wanted was someone in her family seeing the article. For years, she had been able to live her life as she chose. The war, although difficult, had opened her eyes to a range of experiences. Some had been good, and others bad. But they had all fashioned her into the person she was now.
Some memories from the war haunted her still. But being able to live a life she had chosen for herself had given her a great deal of contentment. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t been born Augusta Peel. She was Augusta Peel now.
Once people learned about her past, they would treat her differently. It would change everything. This quiet life of contentment was about to come to an end.
The newsagent on Marchmont Street opened at six o’clock. Augusta washed, dressed, gave Sparky an early breakfast, and made her way there for opening time. Reluctantly, she bought a copy of the London Weekly Chronicle. Then she walked back to her flat. Her knees felt weak and her feet felt disconnected from the ground. As if she were floating. It was an uncomfortable sensation. She felt present and absent at the same time.
The tailor’s wife greeted her and she smiled a good morning. She climbed the stairs to her flat and her limbs felt numb. Once inside the flat, she locked all three locks on her door. She wanted to keep the world out.
The tailor’s wife had greeted her happily, but she was going to discover who Augusta really was. After that she would treat her differently. Just like everyone else.
Walter Ferguson was about to change everything in her life.
Augusta placed the newspaper on the dining table and sat down. Sparky fluttered about the room as she ran her eyes over the front page. There was no mention of her there. Her heart thudded and her hands trembled as she turned over the first page. She felt nauseous as her eyes bounced over each headline, searching out for mention of her name or a lady spy or bookseller.
She turned the next page.
And then the next.
