Chapter 12

Twelve

brODIE

He arrived at the offices of Sir Edward Mallory Esq. for the appointment he had requested with Daniel Eddington, who was a partner in the law office and had been the fiancé of Charlotte Mallory.

He gave no specific reason for the appointment, but had simply stated there were legal matters he needed to discuss, not far off the truth. He did not want to alarm Eddington by stating the actual reason, that he was a consultant for the Metropolitan Police. The clerk might have refused altogether to schedule the appointment. He had encountered that before and it just made things more difficult.

He checked the time on his pocket watch as he stepped down from the cab. He was somewhat early, but it gave him the opportunity to visually take in the Mallory office very near Hyde Park.

It was a brownstone in the Georgian design, as Mikaela called this particular building style, with tall windows that faced onto the street and a half-dozen steps that led to the main entrance behind a wrought-iron fence. A brass nameplate beside the entrance announced that he had arrived at the offices of E. Mallory and Associates, Legal Consultants.

It was the sort of building with that discreet fa?ade that spoke of success in the court, prestige, and money. Not the sort of representation that he could have afforded if those charges against him had not been dropped, courtesy of Sir Avery Stanton of the Special Services.

As he had learned long ago, wealth meant power, power meant success, and it seemed by that address and appearances that Sir Mallory had been very successful in his chosen profession as one of the most powerful lawyers in London.

The clerk at the front desk greeted him with a critical glance at his coat and an appropriately subdued expression, the sort he had seen countless times among those of the upper classes.

"You have an appointment, sir?"

Brodie nodded and gave his name. "Mister Eddington will be expecting me."

"I will let him know that you have arrived," the clerk curtly replied, then disappeared down the hall that led from the front entrance to a series of doors and a set of double doors at the end.

The interior of the offices gave off that same air of success and wealth, with thick carpet on the floor, gleaming dark wood furnishings that included the clerk's large desk, and several overstuffed chairs of the sort at Lady Antonia Montgomery's residence.

Two gentlemen sat in muted conversation beside a fireplace surrounded by wood-paneled walls lined with requisite framed portraits. One a likeness of Sir Mallory.

The others were older individuals, including one he recognized as the former prime minister from pictures in the dailies, and a more recent one of the current prime minister. The nameplate below the portrait gave his name, Sir Robert Gascoyne, as a former legal associate.

Wealth meant power.

It was a lesson he'd learned on the streets as a boy and never forgot in his time with the MET, and then in his private inquiries. People used their wealth for power.

And then there was Mikaela Forsythe, who contradicted everything he had learned about those of her station.

"Mr. Brodie?" The clerk had returned. "Mr. Eddington will see you now."

He followed the clerk down that hallway with that thick carpet under his feet to one of those doors.

The clerk knocked and then showed him into the office of Daniel Eddington, who had recently been made a full partner in the prestigious law firm, according to Mikaela. No doubt in anticipation of his marriage to Charlotte Mallory, and then as a new member of the family. And now, that had all ended with the young woman's death.

Mikaela didn't know anything about Mr. Eddington, however, her great-aunt had ‘heard' things around London regarding the man who was being introduced about the city as the heir to the Mallory legal firm.

"I've read his name mentioned connected to several cases," Lady Antonia had mentioned. "Quite an ambitious young man, and heir apparent to the Mallory dynasty, as there was only the daughter and no son to inherit. Everything I have heard is that he is being molded in the manner of Sir Mallory."

And according to her own solicitor, Sir Laughton, the young lawyer had acquired that same ruthless manner when presenting a case at court.

The office Brodie now entered was not large, but it spoke of that influence. And power? What did that tell him about the man who rose from behind that desk?

"Mr. Brodie, previously with the Metropolitan Police, now in the private inquiry business. I would usually say that it is a pleasure to meet you, however under the circumstances…" Eddington added. "I am not surprised by this visit. I am aware that you have spoken with Sir Mallory about this dreadful situation. Are you here in some official capacity?"

Situation , Brodie thought, not unfamiliar with the way some people put things in little boxes. The man's fiancé had been murdered, and it was a situation.

He had encountered that sort of response before, that way of putting a label on something, then tucking it away. Again, he found himself thinking of Mikaela, not at all of the same cut of cloth, as one on the street would say. How had she escaped it? But he knew.

Those early things that had a way of shaping a person. The good along with the bad that became like a shadow that followed one everywhere, and made them who they were.

In that they were verra much similar as they were different, and he could well imagine how she would approach Mr. Eddington—direct, her questions sharp, insistent upon answers, not above using her station.

He was of a different mind in the matter and the reason he chose to make his appointment.

"Aye, a most difficult situation." He was deliberate in his choice of words. Eddington had anticipated that they would meet and, as they say, his guard was up.

"Ye have my condolences, sir. I know this must be a verra difficult time. And of course, ye would want to assist in whatever way ye can to find the one who has done this dreadful thing to ye."

He caught the immediate change in Eddington's demeanor, the way his mask as Mikaela called it, slipped and a different expression from that of the aloof legal counsel appeared.

"I can imagine how difficult this is," Brodie said with great sympathy, quite simply because he could imagine it.

"Can you?" Eddington's voice caught. "To have been planning our wedding and now… Are you married, Mr. Brodie?

"Aye."

"And if this happened to your wife? Can you imagine how it must be, Mr. Brodie?" Eddington demanded, his hold on self-control seeming to crumble.

He could, of course, particularly with the work they shared. Of all the things he'd experienced and come through, and the things he'd done, that was the one thing Angus Brodie knew he could not bear.

He would be like a madman and he would hunt down the person who had hurt her, no matter the cost. It was that simple.

Aye, he could imagine it.

"It is the reason I am here. To find the one who has done this. If there is some way that ye might be able to help us, something that Miss Mallory might have spoken of, some encounter that perhaps frightened her."

Daniel Eddington seemed to gather himself once more. "You must forgive me, Mr. Brodie. Of course, I will help in whatever way that I can."

Over the next hour, he asked those questions and watched Daniel Eddington with the experience of having spoken with countless people over the course of his time with the Met. He noted the way Eddington held himself, each gesture, the emotion that came and was then forced back, and listened to the perfect control in the answers he gave.

What he was seeing was either genuine grief with an effort to maintain control. Or something else?

"How long have ye been with Sir Mallory's firm?" he then asked. He caught that faint hesitation again.

"Very near twelve years," Eddington replied. "I represented my first client shortly after being asked to join the office."

A knock at the office door ended their meeting as the clerk returned and announced that Mr. Eddington's next appointment had arrived.

"If that will be all?"

It was not a question, but polite dismissal.

MIKAELA

I had told Lily as much as I could about our inquiry into Charlotte Mallory's murder before leaving Sussex Square. She was quite stoic as she listened. There was no need for me to explain to her that our information, so far, was quite thin. We had very little to go on.

"Ye will be able to find the one who did this, won't ye?" she had asked afterward. "Ye always find them."

I appreciated her confidence in us, but knew that there were some cases that went unsolved. I didn't want to mislead her. Still, it was early in our inquiries, and I was hopeful that Brodie might learn something from Daniel Eddington that could be helpful.

"It is early in the case," I explained. "We have additional people to speak with. There is always the possibility that one will be able to provide important information."

She had accepted that, yet I saw something behind that striking blue gaze that I had glimpsed once before, when we first met. Determination.

It was late afternoon now, as I arrived back at the Strand, the office above darkened.

"Aye, Mr. Brodie has not returned yet," Mr. Cavendish informed as he wheeled out from the alcove. Rupert the hound followed at a trot to show me his latest conquest—an old boot that had been thoroughly mauled and chewed.

I gave him a pat on the head, and did hope there hadn't been a foot inside that boot.

"I was just on me way over to the Public House," Mr. Cavendish announced. "Might I bring supper for you, miss?"

"Perhaps for Mr. Brodie," I replied. I had eaten an early supper with Lily and my great-aunt before leaving Sussex Square.

"Right you are," he nodded, then waited.

"Is there something else, Mr. Cavendish?"

"I'll just wait until you reach the office, miss."

I gave him a surprised look.

"Mr. Brodie's instructions, now that I'm workin' for him. Not that I wouldn't otherwise."

"Instructions?" This was something I wasn't aware of.

"He said that me and the hound were to make certain that you were safe up at the office with the lock set. What with them poor women murdered, and other crime about the city. Can't be too careful."

He patted the front of his short coat, somewhat shorter in his case due to his infirmity.

"He said that I was to use this if it came to it." He produced a knife, of the sort that might have come from Munro and similar to the one I carried.

"The hound, he naturally has his own weapons," he added.

I could have sworn the hound grinned on the sidewalk beside him, flashing those ‘weapons .'

It seemed that I now had two bodyguards. It was quite amusing in the extreme. However, I had seen the swiftness with which Mr. Cavendish maneuvered that wheeled platform. Legs and ankles would certainly be in danger. As for the hound, there was that grin.

It did seem that Brodie had taken precautions once again. It was that over-protective nature of his that I had decided I simply had to accept. One could take the man out of Scotland, but not the Scot out of the man. And I had to admit that I did like those other aspects of Angus Brodie.

"Very well, Mr. Cavendish," I replied as I climbed the stairs to the second-floor landing. "Please convey my greetings to Miss Effie."

He grinned, almost as wide as the hound, and then he was off, the hound remaining on guard duty, with his boot at the bottom of the stairs.

Along with other changes at the office under the new ownership, locks had been changed including a bolt, with keys provided by the locksmith, who had been less than forthcoming regarding who had ordered the new locks when Brodie had questioned him.

I now carried one of the two matching keys as I wondered again about the new owners and how long we might remain. It did seem with that rather elegant sign that it might be arranged. Although one could only speculate what the new rents might be.

I turned on the electric just inside the entrance that was also one of the recent improvements, then closed the door and smiled to myself as I set the lock according to Mr. Cavendish's instructions.

The office was cold with the weather that was expected. I quickly removed my coat and scarf, then crossed to the stove and filled the hopper with coal.

I soon had the fire going, then crossed over to the desk and turned on the electric desk lamp eager to read that letter found in Charlotte Mallory's handbag that the police had found. Mr. Dooley had sent it over.

I noted the name on the outside of the envelope—C. Walmsley, Guildford, Surrey—and took out the letter. It was dated the same day Charlotte Mallory was murdered:

Mrs. Walmsley,

I am in receipt of your letter of November 18 in addition to your previous letter of 4 June.

I cannot understand the reason you are doing this.

I must ask that you have no further contact with me in the matter.

Charlotte Mallory

Who was C. Walmsley? There was no way of knowing with that address on the outside. Only that Charlotte Mallory had written— Mrs. Walmsley , on the letter itself.

Yet, I had learned several things in those few words.

One: Mrs. Walmsley had contacted Charlotte some months earlier and then again on 18 November.

Two: There was something in that original letter that had alarmed Charlotte, even though she chose to ignore it. Then she had received a second letter.

I obviously had questions.

Who was C. Walmsley of Guildford?

What had she written in those letters that had upset Charlotte Mallory?

What did any of it mean to our current inquiry case?

I remained at the office rather than returning to Mayfair, so that I might discuss those contents with Brodie when he returned.

It was quite late when he finally arrived. After meeting with Daniel Eddington, he had then met with Mr. Dooley regarding the information he asked him to obtain.

"Ye should have bolted the door," he commented as he hesitated in the open doorway, watching the street below, an icy gust of wind swirling into the office as the weather arrived.

"Mr. Cavendish was standing guard in the alcove below after returning from the Public House. And the hound was quite content to guard the stairs," I informed him with some humor.

It was apparently wasted as he continued to watch the street below, his eyes narrowed.

"What is it?"

"A man across the way, watching the office."

The Strand was never empty, no matter the time of day or night. It was at the edge of the theater district just a short distance away, along with a handful of taverns, the Public House, and other establishments.

I approached the entrance and glanced down at the street. While the weather and the time of the night had sent most people home, there were still several afoot and others in cabs who hurried against the cold and the rain that had started.

I saw no one across the way who lingered in spite of the weather. Whoever it might have been was now gone. Brodie closed and bolted the door.

"Mr. Cavendish brought supper from the Public House," I told him. "There on the desk."

He made only the barest acknowledgement, obviously deep in thought as he set his umbrella aside and removed his neck scarf.

"I ate earlier with Lily and Aunt Antonia," I mentioned. "I told Lily as much as I could about our inquiries." I tried again.

"What were you able to learn from Mr. Dooley?"

He still hadn't touched the covered plate on the desk, but stood before the chalkboard where I had made additional notes after reading that letter.

"He was finally able to locate the wine merchant. He's driven that route for the past five years. He gave the same description of the man he saw but thought nothing of it at the time, as it was only late afternoon that day."

And then in that way when he was thinking of two things at once.

"Ye read the letter…"

In addition to the contents of that letter, I also told Brodie about my conversation with my great-aunt. And once again, I had the impression that he was barely listening, if at all.

Then, in that way he has, he looked up and asked what I thought the information my great-aunt had shared might mean. Infuriating man.

"I have no idea what it means," I replied. "It hardly seems likely that the same person committed that murder five years ago, and now again. After all, he's dead."

"The letters that Charlotte Mallory received might tell us something," Brodie commented then. "If she kept them."

"I will contact her mother in the morning, if she will even agree to meet with me. She seemed most fragile when we met before."

He had finally eaten supper, or at least some of it. The rest was left for the hound in the morning.

He was most definitely preoccupied with something.

"What of your meeting with Daniel Eddington?"

"As to be expected, the young man is in mourning. He seemed most cooperative, however there was little he could tell me about that day."

Someone else might have missed it, but I picked up on it.

"Seemed?"

"Aye, something didn't seem quite right."

It really was too tempting to ignore.

"Your instincts, of course."

That dark gaze narrowed as he reached out and grabbed me by the wrist.

" Fear treun ," he replied in Gaelic with that thick Scots accent.

"And what might that mean, Mr. Brodie?" I asked as he pulled me close.

"Ye are a brave one," he replied with a low growl as he buried his hands in my hair.