Chapter 14

Fourteen

THE OLD BAILEY, LONDON

Brodie left the town house early for the ride across the city to that notorious prison, the Old Bailey, adjacent to the Criminal Courts.

It was a massive, monstrous series of buildings adjacent on Bailey Street, hence the name, and very near the old Roman Wall, as Mikaela had once explained.

The prison of that name had been built over three hundred years earlier in what she had described as an amalgam of massive cut-stone walls in the Gothic style.

She knew a lot about that sort of thing, although she dismissed it as meaningless flotsam. Still, he admired that about her, the education she'd acquired, while he had his education mostly from the streets.

He knew other things about the Old Bailey: The reputation for those poor souls incarcerated within those walls, no matter the path in life that had brought them there. The public hangings that had ended only a few years earlier. Then there was the walkway from one's cell to those gallows, the skeletons of those who had gone before buried beneath it.

He had seen it all, much different from her knowledge of the place, in an effort to save a man that had failed. And he might have once ended there as well.

She never held the difference between them over him, something else he admired in addition to her keen intelligence and that woman's sense that she claimed to have. Something that he had never experienced in the women he'd known.

There were other things too, and taken on the whole, there were times when he just wanted to watch her, watch that keen mind as it worked, then see that smile when she arrived at some answer.

Women were not supposed to be logical. She was that, and more. And in those moments, he felt both pride and something verra near surprise to have her in his life. Not that it was always easy. There was that stubbornness, and she would never hesitate to speak her mind.

Then there was the other part of it, of course, he thought on that long coach ride. The softness of her, the way she breathed in sleep at night beside him…

If he could just manage to tame that independent way about her, taking herself off on some matter or another, that had a way of terrifying him as if the devil was on his shoulder tormenting him.

Most likely a hopeless proposition as her great-aunt, Lady Montgomery, had pointed out in the beginning.

"She has always had that independent nature. I suppose it comes from the dreadful situation with her father. Trusting someone will not come easy for her. However, once she gives it…"

Forever , he thought now.

It was a word that had never existed for him before. His life had always been day to day, and survival, even after he joined the MET. But forever did have meaning now—if he could just protect her and keep her alive when she went off on some clue.

That was the other part of it. She had a particular temper about his protection of her, insisting that she could take care of herself. And she was quite accomplished in that. All well and good.

He just needed to find a way to protect her without her knowing it, he thought as the driver arrived at the entrance to the Criminal Courts.

He looked up at the driver and paid the fare. He could have sworn the man said something.

" Good luck to you on that."

Once the fare was in hand, the man touched the brim of his hat, then snapped the reins over the backs of the team and guided them back into the city.

As he had the day before, Brodie followed the signs from the entrance to the second floor, where the judges had their offices before attending court.

It was early, deliberately so, and the thin, pasty-faced clerk from yesterday had not yet arrived. He passed by the area where he had waited with no success the day before, the office for Judge Cameron just down the way, very near that additional stairway that led to the court.

Looking around, he saw the hallway was completely empty. According to the information board at the entrance, it appeared that none of the three judges who usually sat criminal cases and were expected that day had arrived yet. Nor had their staff.

However, the board had provided information that he needed. Judge Cameron was hearing a case beginning at ten o'clock in the morning in Courtroom One.

Brodie took the slender tool that he always carried along with his revolver from his inside coat pocket and opened it, much like that knife Munro had given him. Then, with one more look around he inserted the curved end of the pick into the lock on the door of Judge Cameron's chambers.

As Mikaela had commented more than once, one could take the man out of the streets, but not the street out of the man.

He supposed that was true. Old habits die hard, he thought, as he carefully maneuvered the pick in the lock, then finally heard that last tumbler click open.

He smiled to himself. Instead of being shocked or outraged the first time he used that particular method of entering a flat or locked warehouse, Mikaela had surprised him.

"You must show me how it's done!"

He pushed the door open, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.

There were times that things learned on the street were verra useful. In particular when it came to avoiding a pasty-faced clerk who was full of himself. Or anyone else for that matter.

And it was there he waited for Judge Cameron to arrive, seated in a thick upholstered chair, before that massive desk where final trial documents were signed and sealed a man's fate. So that he might express his condolences, then ask the questions that might help find the one who had murdered the judge's daughter.

MIKAELA

I was familiar with the Times newspaper archive from past inquiry cases. It had provided a valuable source of information.

Actual copies of newspapers, dailies, and crime sheets had been kept for decades on racks on two floors of a moldy, foul-smelling building that the Times owned very near the Strand, and now more recently contained photographic archives on film rolls.

Those rolls were catalogued by date and year, in metal tins to protect the film, and available for viewing on one of the viewing machines on the second floor of the building.

I had spent days and often weeks, searching through old issues of newspapers looking for information regarding a case, only to leave after countless hours with ink-stained gloves that the attendant insisted upon, a dreadful headache, and then starting all over again the next day in search of a crumb of important information.

However, all those past issues on film had been catalogued so that all I had to do was request the film archive from a certain date, rather than looking through countless pages of entries. Modern inventions were quite marvelous.

Brodie had departed the town house early after informing me the previous evening that he was going to return to the Criminal Courts, determined to have his meeting with Judge Cameron, while I wanted very much to search for information regarding that five-year-old murder that seemed to have some importance for the case we were pursuing.

I had managed, however, to delay Brodie's departure for a short time, even though a determined Scot presented quite a challenge.

I wasn't certain now whether it was the warmth of the bed with icy rain pelting the windows of the bedroom, or ‘my charms,' as he called them, that had finally persuaded him.

"I don't want to be late ," he had grumbled, after which I informed him to quit complaining about it, and…

Hmmm. I did hope that he wasn't late.

As for my task for the morning, I wrote down the year my great-aunt had been fairly certain that earlier murder had occurred and submitted the call slip to the clerk. He returned with a tin of film for issues of the newspaper including the crime sheets for the entire year of 1886.

"Has Mr. Burke consulted any of the archives in the past two weeks?" I inquired with a thought of what Lily had shared from her last conversation with Charlotte Mallory. He checked his visitor log.

"I don't see that he requested anything from the archive, although I am not the only clerk. However, if he had checked out any of the film archives, it would be shown in here."

I thanked him, then took the tin with that film roll to the viewing machine. I then threaded the film from one spindle over the viewing plate with that light above, and onto another spindle, scrolled to the first crime sheet, and began my search.

In addition to the year of that murder, I had a name—Ormsby, fairly well-known, according to Aunt Antonia.

Failing that, I could always search the death notices, as she claimed the young man was killed in a riding accident only a few months after that tragic murder.

How difficult could it be?

That is, if my great-aunt was correct about when the murder took place. If not, I might be here most of the day searching, or possibly into the following day.

It was very near midday when I found it. The entry on the crime sheet covering the murder was brief, with scant details, but it was enough.

It made note of a young woman by the name of Amelia Harris of Abbington Lane, who was found dead after a late supper with friends. She had been found strangled to death after not returning to the family home.

The name Harris was familiar. Aunt Antonia had mentioned something about the family business, coffee imports.

Several persons were questioned, including a man, Mr. E. Walmsley, a bookkeeper returning from a late appointment.

Walmsley! The same name that was on that letter to Charlotte Mallory.

The report then went on to mention that several persons were questioned but no suspect was detained.

I now had a specific date and that report on the crime page of the Police Gazette. I then scrolled through the next few issues of the newspaper that followed that date.

I eventually found the funeral notice for Amelia Harris, then a subsequent article about the ‘horrible crime and a devastated family' by Times writer, Walter Morrison. I made notes of everything including Morrison's name.

The next article I found was several days later, reporting that Mr. Gerald Ormsby of London, to whom Amelia Harris had been engaged to marry, was being questioned in the matter. There were additional articles, as the Harris and Ormsby families were well known.

Mr. Morrison was quite flamboyant in the additional articles he wrote, sensationalizing the details that followed. Mr. Ormsby was eventually ‘detained,' and held on charges of murder.

There was one witness, a man by the name of Walmsley, and the evidence seemed quite incriminating even though Mr. Ormsby was to be defended by Sir Edward Mallory, considered to be one of the most successful barristers in London when it came to defending a client.

Apparently there had been a falling-out between Amelia Harris and Gerald Ormsby. He had been outspoken in that he refused to accept that the marriage would not take place. And there was that witness who was to give testimony at the trial.

I stared at the stunning headline of the next article as Mr. Morrison followed the trial. The prosecutor for the Crown was unable to produce the witness. He had disappeared!

Without the witness, the Crown's case against Mr. Ormsby collapsed and the judge was forced to dismiss the charges against him. The judge was Harold Cameron!

There were attempts by Mr. Morrison of the Times to meet with the Harris family in the aftermath however, Amelia's father refused to meet with him.

In following issues of the Times over the next two months, articles about the tragedy continued.

Amelia's mother was stricken with some sort of fever that was attributed to mourning the murder of her daughter. She died shortly afterward. Amelia's father, devastated by the double loss, was rarely seen except to take care of the affairs of his import business.

This was followed by an article about a devastating fire in the warehouse office at the docks. Caught in the inferno, Simon Harris perished. The only survivor was the long-time warehouse manager.

There was another article several months after the devastating tragedies. Gerald Ormsby was riding in Hyde Park and suffered a tragic accident when he was thrown from his horse, his neck broken.

I sat back in the chair before that reading machine, in an attempt to grasp the information I'd learned. So much tragedy, a murder unsolved that had devastated a family, and a witness that had gone missing.

But what did all of it mean all these years later in the deaths of two young women?

I made notes from the additional information I had found, then returned the roll of film to the clerk.

"Do you know of Mr. Morrison, a writer with the Times?" I inquired. It might be useful to speak with him about anything else he might remember from that earlier murder.

"Mr. Morrison?" he replied with some surprise. "He's been gone must be six or seven years now. Heard that he had a bit of a habit with the drink that finally got him."

There would be no information to be found there. I thanked him.

It was early afternoon but seemed much later with the weather. A thick rain had continued through the morning and into the afternoon, and I had neglected to bring my umbrella.

With the Times archive building very near the Strand, I had arranged to meet Brodie back at the office afterward.

He had returned as well, Mr. Cavendish informed me as I arrived.

The office was warm and inviting, a fire burning in the coal stove. Brodie sat at the desk, pipe in hand, as he studied the chalkboard. He looked up as I entered the office.

"I was startin' to think I might need to have Mr. Cavendish send the hound after ye with this weather."

He rose from the desk as I removed my coat. He took it from me and hung it to dry beside his.

"And I see that ye left without yer umbrella."

That might explain strands of my hair wet against my cheeks.

"It is a bit wet out," I replied as he went into the adjacent bedroom and returned with a towel.

"For an intelligent woman, it is surprising that ye go about without yer umbrella or a stout pair of boots."

"I was anxious to get started this morning."

The scolding, if it could be called that, continued as he took my bag and set it on the desk, then proceeded to dry my hair, me, and finally remove my shoes.

"Yer feet are wet as well!" He made one of those sounds, much like a parent scolding a child.

"That has been known to happen when crossing the street in a downpour," I pointed out. Yet, I had discovered that I liked these moments when this part of him—protective, caring, perhaps a little worried, escaped from behind that dark gaze.

"Come and stand by the fire and warm yerself."

"Is that a dram of Old Lodge you have there?" I inquired of the tumbler beside his pipe on the desk.

That dark gaze narrowed as he went to the sideboard, a new acquisition for the office, and retrieved another glass.

"Wot am I to do with ye?"

I had some thoughts about that as he returned and handed me the glass with whisky shimmering like gold. However, I supposed it would have to wait as I studied the chalkboard.

"You've made notes," I commented.

"Some."

"Your meeting with Judge Cameron was successful?" If not, I was fairly certain I would have already heard about it.

"More or less," he replied, taking a sip from his own glass with a thoughtful expression.

"And that would mean?"

"I did meet with the man. He was not particularly accommodatin'. He reminded me that I had no authority as I was no longer the MET, and threatened to have me arrested."

"For what?" I inquired.

"It might have been about enterin' his office before he arrived. It is most usually locked."

I could imagine how he had managed that.

He had left particularly early. It seemed that he wanted to make certain he was not turned away again.

"Arrested for picking the lock to his office." I concluded the obvious.

In typical Brodie response, he brushed it off.

"I don't suppose that put Judge Cameron in a particularly cooperative attitude."

"It was a most interesting conversation," Brodie replied.

"I expressed my condolences over the death of his daughter," he continued, "and explained that we were making inquiries on behalf of a friend of Charlotte Mallory."

"He claimed no knowledge of anything that might have upset her, and explained that she was anticipating her forthcoming marriage to Mr. Eddington."

I was not surprised, considering the secrecy that Mrs. Mallory had undertaken in meeting with me. Either he had spoken the truth that he had no knowledge of any upset, or chose not to acknowledge that there had been.

"Out of curiosity, I then inquired about that murder case that her ladyship recalled."

"What was he able to tell you?"

"That is the ‘ less ' part of the conversation. He claimed only a vague memory of it, an unfortunate situation, he called it. And he inquired who our client was. He was most insistent."

"What did you tell him?"

One corner of his mouth lifted in smile. "I told him what a lawyer might say, that it was confidential."

I could only imagine what Judge Cameron's reaction might have been to that.

"You sensed there was more that he wasn't saying," I concluded.

Brodie had that way about him, that sense of something from working countless cases for the MET and then in his private inquiries. And as I had discovered, almost always correct.

I would have pointed out that it was very much like a woman's intuition about things—a frequent discussion between us, however I kept to the matter at hand.

"What did he tell you?"

"He remembered that Sir Mallory represented the suspect at the time. It seems that Daniel Eddington was a young law clerk and had presented the initial defense to the court that the accused had spent the day and evening at his club."

"What about a witness to the crime mentioned in the newspaper articles?" I inquired.

"He remembered that the witness disappeared and the court was forced to dismiss the charges, not something that usually happens."

A witness to the murder, a man by the name of Walmsley, by what I was able to find in the newspaper archive. And that same name on the letters sent to Charlotte Mallory!

"What were ye able to learn?" Brodie then asked.

I went over everything I had been able to find in the film archive of the newspaper.

"You have told me there is no such a thing as coincidence." I turned from the board where I had been adding my notes as I spoke.

There was more that I had learned, that I still struggled to understand.

"Wot is it?" Brodie asked. He did know me quite well.

"Mr. Morrison with the Times wrote a brief article after Amelia Harris was murdered. His style was somewhat theatrical." That was as close as I might describe it.

"It seems that a red rose was nearby when her body was found, and then several more arrived for the funeral. The color red is for passion," I reminded Brodie.

"There has to be a connection to the murders of Charlotte Mallory and Elizabeth Cameron," I concluded. "I'm certain of it."

And that name? The witness who disappeared—Walmsley? I was certain the name was the next piece to the puzzle.

"Aye, verra possible," he agreed. "A trip to Guildford might be useful, to find what the person might know who sent those letters."

Brodie poured us both another dram of whisky.

"I'll contact Mr. Dooley to see what he might be able to learn about that warehouse fire," he added. "It shouldna be too difficult to find information. Harris, ye said the name was? A coffee importer?"

With our plan made to go to Guildford the following morning, I realized that I hadn't eaten all day.

"I will buy supper at the Public House," I told him. My clothes had dried for the most part and I was suddenly quite hungry.

He took the glass from my hand.

"Aye, to the invitation, however I will pay. For now, I can still afford to feed ye, despite the fact that ye eat like a horse, and take inquiry cases where there is no fee," he added pointedly.

Spoken like a true Scot.

"Of course, dear," I replied as he held my coat for me.