Chapter 10

Ten

I have discovered in our inquiry cases that when it comes to crime, nothing is trivial or unimportant. Everything discovered, each clue, often leads to something else, and then something important.

It was, as I pointed out to Brodie, very much like a jigsaw puzzle, one piece led to another until the whole picture emerged. So far, we had only a few random pieces to this puzzle and none of them connected. Yet.

Which led me now to pace before the chalkboard in the office on the Strand where I had made new notes after returning from our visit with Dr. Cameron.

We had learned two very important things:

One: the good doctor had specifically said that nothing else was found on the body other than a few coins in Margaret Cameron's handbag.

Two: We had, after much searching, found the rose in the rubbish container in the front office by Miss Phipps's desk, very near the same as the flower found on Charlotte Mallory's body.

Either Miss Phipps had thought it unimportant and simply tossed it away, or there had been a deliberate attempt to get rid of it either by her or Doctor Cameron. Then there was the doctor's immediate departure after we left.

I contemplated all of this as Brodie sat at the desk, going over the police report Mr. Dooley had provided. Then the service bell at the landing rang.

Supper had arrived. I was starving.

Brodie went out onto the landing, and returned with the supper Mr. Cavendish had brought from the Public House across the way. It was neatly wrapped in brown paper and then in a paper bag to make it easier for Mr. Cavendish to navigate the Strand without losing it.

He did have a penchant for crossing the Strand at a dangerous speed that terrified coach and cart drivers as well, with Rupert the hound usually close beside amidst shaken fists and colorful curses.

"Meat pies!" I exclaimed of that hearty fare found in most working areas of London. And those from the public house, prepared by Miss Effie, who had become a good friend, were most excellent.

"And for Mr. Cavendish as well?" I inquired, as she usually sent along supper for him.

"Aye," Brodie replied. "He and that disgusting hound were well into their pies in the alcove when I retrieved our supper."

"Has he said anything yet?" I asked.

"About wot?"

"Miss Effie," I replied. "There is most definitely something going on there."

That dark gaze met mine as he set a paper carton before me on the desk.

"Miss Effie and Cavendish?"

"Hmmm," I replied as I savored the meat pie. "They have been spending a considerable amount of time together."

It was so like a man not to notice these things.

"Miss Effie and Cavendish?" he repeated.

"It is quite obvious. He even inquired what sort of candy she might like."

He had set his fork down and stared at me.

"She leaves the door to the storeroom at the Public House open for him when the weather turns," I pointed out. "And he has most definitely improved in his attire."

"When might this have happened?"

"It's been going on for several months. They are both unattached, after all." Although I supposed the hound might be considered an attachment.

I was well into my meat pie, and enjoying it immensely.

"It is possible, you know," I added. "Even with his infirmity. He is quite robust."

"Robust?" he repeated.

I smiled to myself. I was enjoying the conversation. I angled him a teasing look.

"The old saying, where there's a will, there's a way?" I suggested.

He shook his head. "Ye are shameless."

I rose from my side of the desk and returned to the chalkboard. I studied the lists of clues we had discovered, along with the evidence from the two murders.

"Two women, both from well-placed families, found murdered. Both women killed in the same manner, no apparent struggle, nothing of value taken, and no other physical violation." I turned back to where Brodie sat at the desk.

"Is it possible the murderer was known to them?"

He took out his pipe and filled the bowl with tobacco, then lit it. I did love the smell of pipe tobacco.

"Perhaps. Or it might be that the man was so well-dressed—considering that fiber Mr. Brimley discovered—that they felt no cause for alarm."

I looked at what was left of the second rose we had discovered in Dr. Cameron's office.

"A rose was found with both victims," I continued. "A red rose." I was thoughtful.

"A red rose is a symbol of passion, usually given by a man to his lover, but that does not seem to be so in this case."

"Ye seem to know quite a bit about that," Brodie commented as he poured two tumblers of whisky, then rose and approached where I stood before the chalkboard. He handed one to me.

"Two apparently random murders within a few days of each other, a red rose found on each body." I took a sip and continued.

"Either Miss Phipps or Doctor Cameron attempted to dispose of the one found on Margaret Cameron. And let us not forget that he stated that he was awaiting an appointment that late in the day—obviously an excuse to get rid of us, and then his sudden departure in a private coach."

"Wot?" Brodie asked, that dark gaze watching me. He did know me so well.

"Something in Dr. Cameron's manner," I replied

"Yer woman's instinct again, perhaps?"

There wasn't the usual teasing tone this time when he said it. It did seem that it might be possible for Angus Brodie to learn something. And from a woman! Oh, my.

"It was something in his manner." I attempted to explain what it was that I had sensed. "He seemed…"

"Preoccupied? Perhaps uneasy?" Brodie suggested.

"Yes! Very much so. Almost as if…"

"As if he knew more than he was telling us, perhaps even hiding something."

I turned to him. "You sensed it as well."

"It comes with experience. Ye see enough crimes, the people who commit them and others, and ye pick up on things. Congratulations, Mrs. Brodie. Ye've learned a great deal."

It was so like a man to give himself a pat on the back and take full credit.

"It could simply be natural instinct," I pointed out. "It is said that women most particularly seem to have that."

"Women's instinct?" he replied.

"It was through instinct that I decided you might be qualified to assist in pursuing my sister's case," I pointed out.

Never mind that the initial recommendation had come from my great-aunt. That was beside the point.

"Instinct?" he repeated.

"On the surface you hardly seemed the reputable sort," I explained. "However, you proved yourself most adequate." I had sensed other things about Angus Brodie at the time, but this was enough to share for now.

"Adequate?" he replied.

One look at that dark gaze and I knew quite well the reason that I tolerated that insufferable Scot manner. That and the other reason of course. No other man I had ever known valued my thoughts and ideas, and… that woman's instinct.

We had determined that in spite of the two recent deaths and what would normally be the appropriate period of mourning, we needed to speak with the families of Charlotte Mallory and Margaret Cameron for any possibility that there was something they might be able to share something that would shed light on their deaths. Difficult as it was, it needed to be done.

I have found in the past that my official title as Lady Forsythe did have a tendency to open certain doors, and I was not opposed to using it.

Nor was I opposed to using my great-aunt's name of Montgomery when it came to doors that might be firmly closed for one reason or another, most particularly when it came to an official investigation. It could be off-putting.

"What was the response when ye made the request to meet with Sir Mallory?" Brodie asked as our driver navigated traffic across London to the Mallory residence in Knightsbridge.

The telephone call that I put through had been answered by a servant who politely but firmly informed that due to a recent family loss, Sir Mallory was not receiving any visitors.

I had then asked to speak with Sir Mallory and gave my formal name, Lady Mikaela Forsythe. There had been a sudden silence from the person at the other end. It was then that Sir Mallory responded and proceeded to explain the same, and surely I understood.

I politely informed him that we were making inquiries as part of the official investigation by the Metropolitan Police, and added that I was certain he supported that, given his professional position and in the interest of finding the persons responsible.

I then added that if it was not convenient to meet with myself and Mr. Brodie, that the current chief inspector would need to meet with him in the matter at his office.

A polite but curt response followed that he would be able to meet with us at ten o'clock of the morning.

"Ye are quite ruthless," Brodie commented now.

"The pot calling the kettle black?" I replied as we sped across London toward our meeting with Sir Mallory.

When we arrived, we were met at the main entrance of the Mallory residence by the head butler, who announced our arrival in a voice I recognized from that telephone call.

"Lady Forsythe," he acknowledged now, with an expectant look at Brodie.

"Mr. Brodie," he provided the introduction. "Consultant with the Metropolitan Police."

That did seem the best way to describe his association with the MET. We were immediately shown unto the formal library to await Sir Mallory.

The residence was draped in black, as was to be expected of a household during a period of mourning.

Black crepe had been hung across the front entrance, mirrors were draped in black or turned to the wall. There were dozens of bouquets of flowers about the front parlor as we passed by. However, not a red rose in sight.

While we waited, I glanced at Sir Mallory's preference for reading. Not that I thought I might find one of my books on the shelves behind his desk, however I have always found it interesting to glimpse a person's preferences. It can tell a great deal about them.

There were two shelves filled with books regarding the law, which was to be expected. There were also books on the history of English rule from the time of the Conquest through the sixteenth century—Aunt Antonia would have been amused at that, since her ancestors filled the pages of English history.

There were also books on military campaigns, including the war with the American colonies, and a half-dozen volumes by Mr. Dickens. A most interesting variety, and in itself gave me some insight into the man who had acquired the reputation of being one of the most well-known and successful barristers in England.

That brief conversation over the telephone and the glimpse into his preferred reading did not prepare me for the man who eventually joined us in the library.

I had expected someone lean, perhaps even gaunt, the events of the past days heavy in the lines on his face.

Sir Edward Mallory was somewhat portly, immaculately dressed, with what I thought to be deceptively cordial features, thick brows drawn together and a frown on his mouth.

From things my great-aunt had told me, he had to be very near sixty years old. His suit was black, as was to be expected, however except for that, there was an energy about the man that belied age and circumstances, a man very much in control. Perhaps that came with his profession.

"I was told that you would be calling. You must forgive my man, Mr. Hobbs. He was doing his official duty at this very difficult time for our family." He turned to me.

"You were at the service for my daughter earlier this week."

We exchanged brief pleasantries, if it could be called that under the circumstances. He invited us to sit in the thick upholstered chairs before his desk.

"And we have met before," he acknowledged Brodie. "In your work with the MET, I believe."

Brodie nodded. "I gave evidence it two cases regarding clients that you represented at the time."

"Yes, I remember, and I want you to know that I will assist now however I can. The person who is responsible must be found and held to account."

We discussed the events of the evening that Charlotte Mallory was killed, her appointments that day, and that she was to meet her fiancé for supper at Rule's after leaving the print shop.

"There was no difficulty that you were aware of, between her and Mr. Eddington?" Brodie inquired.

"No, of course not. The wedding was to be in January. He is a fine young man, with my office, as I'm certain you're aware. He is devastated, absolutely devastated over this, as you can no doubt imagine."

"There was an item found at the location where Miss Mallory was attacked." Brodie then approached the subject of the rose and what it might mean.

"A flower," he clarified.

Sir Mallory shook his head. "I had heard that. I can only assume that my daughter received it from her fiancé or perhaps purchased it."

"Has there been any difficulty with anyone you might have represented professionally in the past?" Brodie asked.

I caught the faintest change of expression at Sir Mallory's face. Perhaps it was nothing at all. Still…

"None that I am aware of," Sir Mallory replied.

Knowing Brodie, there would be more questions.

"I know that this is a very difficult time," I commented. "However, I wonder if I might I speak with Mrs. Mallory? To again express my condolences."

I stood and waited expectantly.

"Of course, Lady Forsythe. Mr. Hobbs will show you to the parlor. I believe that she is still there."

I found Mrs. Mallory sitting before a fire, the pallor on her face much the same as our previous encounter at the funeral for her daughter.

Mr. Hobbs introduced me.

"Yes, I remember," she acknowledged. "It is good of you to call, Lady Forsythe. There have been so many the past two days, all very kind."

I didn't bother to point out that this wasn't a social call.

She seemed… fragile, with a small writing table beside her that included notes she was no doubt writing in answer to condolences they had received.

I expressed my own once again at the loss of her daughter as tea was served, then waited until the butler left.

I did hate intruding when one was grieving, however I thought there might be something Charlotte mentioned in recent days that could be important.

"My family, most particularly my ward, was very fond of Charlotte," I began. "She was so very talented and caring."

There was a faint sad smile. "My sister was quite talented as well."

I nodded. "I know that so very well. My sister is quite artistic, while I do well to draw simple stick figures."

That common experience seemed to ease the formality between us, and I decided to try something that Brodie had once explained, that might provide a way to ask Mrs. Mallory questions.

"My sister and I are very close and I remember how devastating it was when she disappeared," I commented. "And then her companion at the time was found dead."

I chose not to use the word ‘murdered.' It was such a harsh word and while it applied to both situations, I wasn't of a mind to be cruel.

"It was such a difficult time," I continued. "However, I was determined to find those responsible, as well as find my sister."

She nodded, and I took that as my cue.

"There was so little information at the time," I began. "Yet, slowly, and with the help of Mr. Brodie, we discovered one clue, and then another."

"I do remember reading something of that in the dailies," Mrs. Mallory commented. "So very difficult. And you eventually found her?"

"Yes, and equally important, we were able to stop the persons responsible from hurting anyone else and see that they were held accountable. There were clues that were invaluable in finding them."

Granted, I might have exaggerated a few of the aspects of that first case, yet it was very near the truth. And I did see a subtle change in her manner at the mention of holding the murderers accountable, the way the tension seemed as she leaned toward me.

"And your sister? She is well."

"Quite well. Our great-aunt is currently assisting her in planning her wedding."

"Lady Antonia Montgomery," she commented. "I know of her from the society pages."

"Through that ordeal," I continued, "I learned how very important even the smallest detail can be in ending a very dreadful situation."

"What sort of insignificant information?"

Rather than go into details about that case, I stayed with generalities that might bring a memory of something Charlotte had shared with her.

"A place my sister planned to visit, an encounter she mentioned, something that seemed unimportant when we last spoke, yet provided insight into something important."

She nodded. "I was helping her plan her wedding. So many decisions to make… far more than I remember from my wedding to Sir Mallory—the church, invitations to be sent out…" She hesitated and the tears came.

"She had gone to the printer's shop. I told her that we could have them delivered, but she wanted to check them one last time… there was a mistake the first time." She pulled her handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown and blotted at the fresh tears.

"And of course there were the flowers to be decided upon," I commented in an attempt to draw the conversation forward.

"Oh, yes," she replied, composing herself once more.

"Red roses?" I suggested.

"Red?" She looked at me with a different expression, confusion at first, and then something else.

"It seemed that she might have purchased one from a flower vendor that day. Or someone gave it to her? Mr. Eddington, perhaps?" I gently suggested.

"I don't know anything about that," she replied, pressing her fingers against her temple.

"It was something the newspapers printed..."

She stood abruptly, and I caught her uneasy glance toward the parlor doors that had been left open.

Had someone been listening to our conversation?

"Thank you for your condolences, Lady Forsythe," she said, quite formally. "If you will excuse me."

She didn't wait for a response but immediately left the room. Not in that slow manner I might have expected of someone in mourning, but more like someone fleeing a fire.

As I returned to the library it seemed that Brodie's conversation with Sir Mallory was also at an end.

"I have told you everything, Mr. Brodie. Now I must insist that you leave us in peace."

Brodie bowed his head in acknowledgement, his expression cordial. However, that dark gaze that briefly met mine was sharp.

I expressed my condolences as well. And as if on cue, the head butler appeared.

"A coach is waiting," Mr. Hobbs informed us.

How convenient, I thought. He had thought to call ahead, so that there would be no delay when it was time for us to leave.