Chapter 7

Maisy had describedthe man she had seen as barely taller than the fence where drivers waited to be called for hotel guests.

That would put him at no more than five-and-a-half feet tall, but quite muscular. Burly, she had described him, and apparently someone who dressed well enough to wear that bowler hat.

Yet, I needed to know more. I needed to know who the man was and what, if anything, it had to do with Ellie Sutton's murder.

It was very near evening, but there was another place I wanted to go. Best under the cover of darkness, along with a disguise in case I should encounter anyone.

Rupert suddenly appeared with the remnants of a paper bakery sack hanging from his mouth. He did have a fondness for cakes and scones. I only hoped that the person who had been attached to the sack hadn't been injured.

I returned to Drury Lane. When I left some time later, I had to admit that I wouldn't have recognized myself in my disguise. It was somewhat reassuring.

For his part, Rupert refused to come near me until he was satisfied, with that keen sense of smell, that I was there underneath the clothes.

I checked the street as I left Drury Lane. The only glance that passed our way was from the cabman, obviously not used to having what appeared to be a dustman or common laborer for a passenger. Then there was the hound of course—extra fare required, and we set off.

I had been to Charing Cross on a past inquiry case. It was a part of London where entire streets of dilapidated tenement buildings, some near three hundred years old, were being torn down to make away for new housing as part of the government's efforts to address poverty and homelessness.

According to the information Alex Sinclair had provided, the address where Ellie Sutton had lived was at the edge of Charing Cross, a part of the area where factory workers, tradesmen, and others with skills that earned a steady wage, lived with their families in some of the less rundown tenements.

I had the driver let me off at the street just over from Craven Street where Ellie Sutton had lived, the hound falling into step beside me.

There was a street light at the corner, the rest of the street dark and filled with shadows, except for the occasional glow of light from a ground floor window of one of the tenements.

I had no idea what I might find at the flat where Ellie Sutton had lived. Nevertheless, I had learned from Brodie there was always something, some small detail that might be important, that was often overlooked. I was hoping there was something that might tell me something important about her and the night she died.

The police had already searched the premises after her body was discovered by the woman who collected the rents. I could only hope there was some detail they missed.

I approached the tenement directly behind the one on Craven Street. It had a narrow alley alongside it, most often used by dustmen who collected rubbish. I certainly looked the part.

In this part of London, rubbish was often left to rot piled at the kerb or in a bin at the back of a house, where it drew rats. It had obviously been some time since the refuse had been picked up here by the look of the piled garbage and those who scavenged among it.

I started down that alley toward the tenement at Craven Street where Ellie Sutton had lived. As I approached the front of the building the sound of voices quite near stopped me. I hid in the shadows and listened. It appeared that the tenement was being guarded by officers from the MET.

"It's been two days now, and not a sign of ‘im," one of the constables commented.

"The orders came straight from the Chief Inspector,"came the reply at the street in front of the tenement.

"He wants one of us here day and night. He knows the man and he's certain he'll come back."

"Fine enough for him to say. He's not the one workin' double shifts and standin' out here freezin' his bollocks off."

Abberline! No stone unturned.

But their complaints told me far more. As of yet, the police had no idea where Brodie was.

I heard that familiar rumble from the hound beside me. I managed to grab the ruff of fur about his neck and whispered one of the few commands he understood, or chose to understand, before he charged off.

It wouldn't do to have him attack one of the constables and possibly expose the fact that I was there.

"Did ye hear somethin'?"One of the constables commented.

"Probably some animal rummaging about in the garbage,"his companion responded. There was another comment, and a curse at the cold.

"Best get on with our rounds. Wouldn't want Abberline to think we were not doing our job."

I listened as they moved down the street until the sound of their bootsteps faded. Satisfied that they were gone for now, I quickly went to the entrance of the tenement.

From previous experience, I knew there were usually six flats to a floor in these old tenement buildings, with someone who collected the rents occupying a ground floor flat, where they could watch the comings and goings of the tenants.

Rupert was presently nose-deep into a rubbish pile at the kerb, the police constables forgotten for now. I told him to stay. It would be difficult to explain his presence if he were to follow me inside.

There was a light in the window beside the main entrance of the tenement. My guess was that was where the landlady lived, and then a light that flickered overhead from the second-floor landing. I hid in the shadows at the main entrance and listened to the sounds of the building.

There were footsteps overhead then the slam of a door along with bits of conversation behind the door of that ground floor flat. The door suddenly opened, and a bag of trash was dumped into the hallway.

"I told ya, I can't rent out 2-C until the bloody peelers is through with their investigation," a woman explained.

"As it is,I'll be lucky to find anyone t' take it, with what happened there. All that blood that needs to be cleaned up. There is already word about the murder on the street. No family will want to rent the place." The door slammed shut once more.

Flat 2-C. It appeared that I now knew which flat Ellie Sutton had lived in.

The next part was going to be a bit more difficult—getting inside. I had considered that as well before setting out, and I had come prepared.

I waited and listened as the sounds in the building settled once more. When no one else appeared I quickly made my way to the stairs. At the second-floor landing, I moved down the hall to flat 2-C.

I tried the latch. The door was locked, no doubt after the police removed Ellie Sutton's body. I needed to work quickly if I was to get inside without being seen.

My work with Brodie had provided me with a few new skills that were useful from time to time. After watching him pick a lock, I had insisted that he teach me how it was done.

There had been some argument over that, of course, however, in the end I had persuaded him to show me his methods. I had then practiced on the lock on the door to the office.

"Ye have a natural feel for it," he had announced at the time, when I successfully picked the lock on the third attempt. Yet, not in a complimentary manner.

"I willna have yego around picking locks unless I'm there, in case there should be any trouble."

In this instance, he was not here and I needed to get inside the flat.

I made a bend in the tip of one hairpin that I pulled from my hair tucked under the cap, then another in the closed end of the second hairpin so that it formed an angle for a lever.

I then inserted the first one into the lock and used the second one to move that one carefully back and forth as I listened for the telltale click of the inner parts of the lock.

Of course, all of it was dependent on the type of lock, as Brodie had explained it. Those found in most upper-class residences as well as business establishments might be more difficult, or there might even be a second locking mechanism such as a dead bolt. But not here.

I carefully applied a bit of pressure to the hairpin that was the lever and heard a distinctive click as the pin inside clicked back as it would have with a key. I smiled to myself, retrieved the hairpin, and entered the darkened flat.

I closed the door behind me and was immediately seized from the back of my jacket, my cap jarred loose from my head with a muffled curse.

I prepared to defend myself as I caught the vague scent of cinnamon, followed by another curse. And then something muttered in Gaelic, equally offensive by the sound of it.

A ghost, Munro had called him, speaking as one who shared that experience when they were lads in Edinburgh. He could hide and no one would ever find him. Or...find him in the most unlikely place.

It seemed that I had found my ‘ghost.'

"Good evening," I greeted Brodie, which brought another curse. "It is good so see you again."

I heard a faint click and the flat was suddenly illuminated by the beam of a hand-held light that he rudely flashed in my face.

"What the devil are ye doin' here?" he demanded.

I pushed the lamp aside. "I might ask you the same question," I replied and rubbed my scalp where the cap had been so rudely removed along with several more pins and a few strands of hair.

"Isn't it a bit dangerous for you to be here?" I added.

"And what is this?" He waved the cap at me.

I snatched it back. "Part of the disguise that Templeton provided so that I might go about without being followed."

"No wart on yer chin?" he commented. There was no mistaking the sarcasm.

He was in a temper, and being particularly peevish with a reminder of a previous disguise I had worn in that first inquiry case.

"I only needed something to get past the constables if I should encounter them."

"Good God, Mikaela! Have ye no sense?"

"Present company excluded, I have remarkable sense."

"We made a bargain when we left Edinburgh," he reminded me. "Ye promised that ye wouldna endanger yerself."

He did have a convenient memory, edited for the purpose of his own argument.

"I promised that I wouldn't endanger myself unless it was absolutely necessary," I corrected him, struggling to keep to a whisper.

"It is absolutely necessary. And I will not sit idly by while you're in danger of being arrested and possibly imprisoned."

That dark gaze narrowed on me. There was undoubtedly more he wanted to say, there usually was. However, under the circumstances, this was not the time or the place. Then, a sound from the hallway put an end to it.

We both went completely still.

"I told you it wasn't nothin'. Yer hearin' things," a man's voice came from across the hall.

Brodie pulled me behind him, then switched off the lamp.

The door nearby, possibly just across the hall, slammed shut once more. I slowly let out the breath I was holding.

"How did ye know I wasna some thief or the landlady?" he demanded. "Ye would have been in a fine situation then."

He switched the lamp back on. So that I could see how angry he was?

"In the first place, the landlady didn't hear me, and you're the one making all the noise, bellowing for all the building to hear," I pointed out.

"And in the second place, a thief wouldn't have locked the door behind him. He would have left it unlocked to make it easy for him to escape." I gave him a long look. "You locked it behind yourself…?"

"So that no one would come in while I was here without some warning."

It made sense—no surprises, such as the neighbor across the hall.

"I wasna expecting someone to pick the lock. It is clear that it was a mistake to teach ye such things."

Of course, dear, I thought, then asked, "What are you doing here? Didn't you think that it might be dangerous to come back?"

"I had no opportunity to look for anything that night that might provide a clue who murdered Ellie…the young woman. Wot are ye doin' here and dressed like a common worker?"

"The very same," I hissed back at him. "Since you disappeared and I refuse to believe that you had anything to do with her murder."

"Ye try a man's soul, Mikaela Forsythe. It's not as if there isna enough to worry about."

"Then I suggest, we get started before someone overhears you. Now, what are we looking for?" I asked.

It was obvious that the constables who were first called to the building the night Ellie Sutton was murdered would have found a weapon, if one was found and taken in for evidence.

"Anything that might tell me who did this," Brodie replied. "A letter, or note she might have received, anything out of the ordinary.

There was something in his voice, something almost sad.

"It wasn't your fault, you know," I pointed out and thought of what Alex Sinclair had shared with me.

Ellie Sutton had apparently made the decision to return to London even knowing the risk. But for what reason?

"I couldna protect her."

There was more. I heard it in his voice, but he didn't say anything more about that night. Or before.

"What about the boy?" I asked.

He looked at me then with more than a little surprise.

"It was in the article in the daily about the murder."

He eventually nodded. "He's safe."

Just those two words as he started to search the flat with the meticulous attention to detail of the investigator looking for clues. It was obvious that he wasn't going to share anything more.

Anything out of the ordinary.

I moved about the main room of the flat at the edge of light from the hand-held as Brodie swept it back and forth, and reminded myself to bring my own the next time I was in a similar situation.

Shadows appeared then disappeared in the darkened room. I caught a glimpse of something, lost it, then glimpsed it again—a small glass tumbler on the table, the sort that Brodie and I had in the office on the Strand when we shared a dram of whisky.

That seemed odd. Particularly for a woman who had just returned from work and then was attacked and murdered.

Was it simply left from the day before the murder? Had she shared a drink with someone? Still, there was only the one glass.

The image of Ellie Sutton drinking alone didn't fit with the few details I had learned about her.

"What have ye there?"

"A glass tumbler. I wonder if Ellie Sutton was in the habit of drinking at the end of the day. It might be able to tell us something if there are prints on the glass," I suggested.

The murderer perhaps? That did seem highly unlikely. I couldn't imagine someone sitting there either before or after, and drinking. Or had it been someone else?

"She didn't drink," he replied, as if that was the end of the discussion about the glass.

Still...no stone unturned.

I found a cloth on the floor. I carefully wrapped the tumbler and put it in the pocket of my jacket.

I then continued my search, but found nothing more, other than a child's toy on the counter beside a small cupboard. It was a toy locomotive. Not surprising considering a young boy had lived there until...

What might that tell us?

I put it in my other pocket as Brodie suddenly crouched to the floor and aimed the beam of the hand-held over a dark stain.

I joined him. It was blood. Not surprising under the circumstances. However there was some sort of mark in the dried blood.

That ‘something' appeared to be an imprint made by a boot. I looked up at Brodie.

"Yours?" I asked, since he had been there that night.

He shook his head. "Not made by a common work boot."

Upon further inspection with the hand-held, the toe of the boot print appeared, faint, as I imagined the murderer had stood there, and what he had done after killing Ellie Sutton. It was almost as if…

"What is it?" Brodie asked.

I wasn't at all certain what it was, an impression more than anything.

"It's almost as if the murderer paused here," I added.

He stared at that stain. "Perhaps."

But if so, what did that tell us?

Before leaving Drury Lane, I had pocketed the revolver along with my notebook and pen. I took those out and made a drawing of that imprint in the blood. I had no idea what it might tell us—something, anything, nothing.

The sketch was crude. I was not the artist in the family, but it was good enough. I then rose and continued my search of the flat as Brodie continued his.

It was suddenly interrupted by a loud baying sound, the sort of sound that might be made by a hound.

Brodie looked over at me. "What the devil?"

"Rupert," I whispered.

He swore under his breath.

"You did insist that I take him with me when I was out and about on my own," I pointed out, as more baying came from the street at the front of the tenement.

Rupert had a particular dislike of the police. It seemed very likely the two constables had returned. It also seemed that our search was at an end.

Brodie shut off the hand-held light and went to the door. He cracked it open and peered out into the hallway.

He nodded to me and I followed as we left the flat then made our way to the stairs. He flattened me against the wall of the stairwell with his arm as I heard voices from the entryway below.

"It's nothin' but the bloody peelers," the man I had heard earlier in that ground floor flat. "Some sort of ruckus, most likely a stray in the trash. Hope the animal takes a bite outta ‘em."

That was very likely, I thought. In the very least, I hoped that Rupert was able to keep the police occupied while we made our escape.

When neither the man nor his companion appeared, Brodie grabbed me by the hand and we escaped down those stairs to the entryway.

He opened the door, we slipped out the entrance, then down that alley toward the street behind the tenement.

The hound was right behind us.

We stopped at the end of the alley, where Brodie checked to make certain there were no constables about. He looked down at me.

"Ye would drive a man crazy, Mikaela Brodie. Nevertheless, I'll keep ye." He pulled me against him in a quick fierce embrace.

"If ye go off again on yer own..."

A familiar threat. I reached up and pushed my hand back through that thick mane of hair.

"Promises, promises..." I replied.