Chapter 16

Sixteen

Constable Nolan agreed to meet us at St. Katherine's Dock early the next morning before he began his shift for the day.

He had been with the MET for over fifteen years and had worked different areas of London including the London Docks.

I was familiar with St. Katherine's Dock from that first inquiry case in the matter of my sister's disappearance and the murder of her companion, Mary Ryan, the daughter of my housekeeper.

After all this time, my sister safely found and now planning her wedding to James Warren, the memory of that time swept back over me—the fear, anger, and then the hopelessness in not knowing who was behind it and if I would find her alive.

I had a habit, from my younger years and early experiences, of withdrawing into myself over such things, trying to make some sense of it all, then pushing back the unpleasant memories that were still there and very likely would be forever. That bit of wisdom from my great-aunt who had experienced some of her own difficulties.

As she had said in the past, it was just life.

"Get over it, my dear, and get on with it."

Now there was someone who knew that same sort of fear, anger, and those other emotions that had a way of raising their ugly heads. The one person I had ever known, other than my great-aunt, who knew exactly what those were about and didn't attempt to coddle me or convince me that ‘it would soon pass' or it was just my imagination.

Someone who let me muddle about, stomp, and curse when I felt it necessary—yes, I have been known to curse from time to time, until I had worked my way through all of it once more.

And then he was there. That dark gaze filled with an understanding of past things that we each carried along with us, and then a hand reaching out for mine.

"What might we find at what is left of the warehouse after such a devastating fire?" I asked as our driver made his way through the early morning streets past the Tower and toward the East End.

"I have seen fires in the past, several of them here in London. A dangerous business to be certain," Brodie explained as he stared out the window at the incessant rain that had greeted us once more that morning upon rising.

"A captain with the fire brigade told me on one of the fires I was called to, that there is always somethin' that is left behind—a bottle of the drink, or some small piece of something that tells who might have been there. And for whatever reason, the remnants of the Harris warehouse might be able to tell us something, even after five years."

"Is there still business conducted there?" I asked. "Shipments that are still received?"

"For two years after, but not for a long time now, Mr. Dooley was able to learn."

The telephone call had come quite early at the office on the Strand. Mr. Dooley had found the former manager of the warehouse, who managed two other nearby warehouses, and oddly enough, still received a stipend from the Harris company to keep watch over the property, which was still owned by Harris Imports.

"That seems odd after all these years," I commented. "What could there be to keep watch over? Burnt ruins?"

We arrived quite early at the docks with that row of warehouses along the wharf, in order to meet with Constable Nolan before he needed to be off to make his shift.

There were only two steam ships moored there waiting, it appeared, to be unloaded. Captain Turner had once explained that often the ships arrived late in the day then waited until the next day for dockworkers to unload their cargos.

At this time of the morning, the tide had not fully turned, and in spite of those cargos still in their holds, the two ships rose quite high in the water at their moorings.

"The river is a fickle woman," he had told me . "And a dangerous one, particularly with the rain that floods it. That is when most ship captains will make certain to wait out the storm in the channel before entering the river so as not to find themselves at high tide next to Buckingham Palace. It would not go well with the Queen."

Constable Nolan was heavyset, more of the muscular sort, in full police uniform, with a nod for Brodie as the rain thickened and I opened my umbrella.

He greeted us with a tip of his hat as Brodie introduced me as his ‘associate,' rather than introducing me as his wife.

I had suggested it as it seemed to be more credible when most women were simply looked past, particularly in professional positions.

"This way then," Constable Nolan indicated the row of warehouses and the darkened hulk of the one on the end.

"I did speak with the former manager for Harris Imports. According to what he told me, he has stayed on as a sort of watchman since there is still a storeroom that survived the fire.

"Quite an effort that was," he continued. "Saving the rest of the warehouses when it went up. And tragic that the owner died in the fire. You'll need to be careful where you step, miss. A great deal of it has been cleaned up and then picked through in the years since. But there are still some roof timbers and the loading dock still there."

And in that way of disasters there were the creatures that had set up residence in the ruins—at least two cats that skittered into the shadows as we arrived, along with a host of pigeons that filled the rafters over that storeroom at the back of the site where the main part of the warehouse had once stood.

I had some experience exploring ruins, though admittedly not usually charred ruins. Still, I took care where I stepped as Constable Nolan led us through what remained of the Harris Imports warehouse.

According to my great-aunt, the company was once quite prosperous, with coffee imported from Brazil and sugar from the West Indies. All of that apparently changed when Amelia Harris was murdered by Gerald Ormsby.

The tragedy was the first of a series of events that destroyed the Harris family and the lucrative import business Simon Harris had built.

I picked my way through the remnants of charred and crumbled walls that still smelled of smoke after all this time, as rain soaked everything.

What, I thought, might these ruins tell us, if anything, about the recent murders of two young women?

Brodie and Constable Nolan had slowly moved ahead, Brodie taking everything in with that dark gaze, occasionally shifting something out of the way or poking with the tip of his umbrella. He picked up something from amidst the rubble.

Then, he continued on with Constable Nolan. As they reached the storeroom that had survived the fire, someone called out from wharf-side where the warehouse stood before the fire.

"Mr. Martins, the former manager," Constable Nolan explained and introduced him as he joined us.

Brodie explained that we were investigating a connection to the Harris fire for a client and asked if it was possible to unlock the storeroom.

Mr. Martins was hesitant, and no doubt suspicious.

"There's naught inside but a few tools," he replied dismissively. "Nothing of value."

"Yet it is locked," Brodie pointed out.

"Been that way since before the fire."

"You receive a stipend to watch over the site, after all these years?" Brodie asked him.

"It's not much, but the least I can do for all the years I worked for Mr. Harris."

"How does that work?" Brodie then asked

Mr. Martins shook his head. "I don't know anythin' about that. The attorney takes care of it."

"Mr. Harris's attorney?" I inquired, knowing something about that sort of thing.

"By the name of Winslow. He came to me after the fire and said that it was somethin' Mr. Harris put in place to take care of those who worked for him."

It appeared that was all Mr. Martins knew, or was going to tell us. And he certainly wasn't about to provide access to that storeroom. Loyal to the end, even after death.

Constable Nolan needed to set off for his shift in another part of London, and it was clearly obvious that Mr. Martins was not about to allow us to continue any sort of inspection of the charred remains of the warehouse.

Brodie, polite as ever, merely a disguise for other things that stirred in his thoughts, bid the man good day, and we departed.

The tide had lowered substantially, dock workers now off-loading the two cargo ships we had seen upon our arrival even in the pouring rain. Out beyond, the wharf water swirled and churned murky gray with white caps that appeared, then disappeared as if hiding.

I had experienced ship travel on my adventures and encountered different waters in the Mediterranean. It was said that nowhere else was the water as unpredictable as in the River Thames. In the past it had flooded the city several times.

"What are you thinking?" I asked as we left the wharf and found a driver.

He was thoughtful.

"How might it be possible that Mr. Martins continues to receive payments all these years after the fire and the death of the owner?"

"Perhaps through a trust," I replied as he gave me a hand up into the coach.

"A trust?"

"It's a legal arrangement with documents that places one's properties—jewelry, funds, a residence or perhaps a business—into a status that can continue on even after their death, with others appointed to handle certain matters."

It was something I knew a little about.

"Our mother placed certain things in a trust for Linnie and me. There weren't many things—an heirloom ring and a few other pieces of jewelry that she inherited from her mother." I smiled at the memory.

"A doll with a porcelain head that one of us might pass on if we had a daughter. Along with a portrait of her as a child with her father that was important to her.

"Certainly not our family home," I added, "as it never belonged to her, and the bankers claimed it after… our father's death."

He knew the details of that sordid affair from my great-aunt, one of those things I preferred not to think about but raised its ugly head from time to time.

"Our mother did what she thought best. The trust she set up still pays a few pounds every month. And the jewelry is there for Linnie, along with the doll for her daughter, if she should have one."

"Where are those things now?" Brodie inquired.

"The portrait is at Sussex Square in one of the upstairs rooms so that Linnie and I could see it from time to time as children. Particularly Linnie, as she was so very young when our mother passed and barely remembered her. It's a way for her to at least see what she looked like. The doll is there as well."

"Aye, I don't imagine ye were one to play with dolls. What of the other things?"

"They are kept at the bank for safe keeping. The bank sends the funds to Mr. Laughton each month, and he sends them on to each of us."

"I have married a woman of means," Brodie said with a faint smile.

He had of course. Our great-aunt had made it understood that my sister and I, as her only heirs, were to inherit her properties when she passed on, which I hoped she would put off for a least a few more decades.

There were also the funds she had distributed to us each month, which I had objected to, particularly after the success of my books.

She had insisted at the time. "It is my money, dear. I will do as I wish ."

That had settled the matter.

"If I should pass on first, you will be a very wealthy man. But do remember the Viking send-off," I reminded Brodie.

He made that particular scoffing sound that I was certain was invented by a Scot.

"A portrait, a doll, and a few odd pieces of jewelry?" he replied. "I would prefer to keep you around for a while. That is, most of the time."

Such endearing sentiments. And then a different expression appeared in that dark gaze.

"At least ye have the portrait of yer mother to remember her by."

We returned to the office on the Strand after leaving the warehouse area at St. Katherine's Docks.

It was still early in the morning, and I updated information on the chalkboard that included my notes about what I observed at the site where the warehouse once stood, including the storeroom.

I finished and dusted off my hands, attempting to find something in all of it that made sense—a connection that might explain two murders.

Brodie was at his desk, an object before him laid out on a piece of butcher paper left from one of our suppers from the Public House. The man refused to throw anything out. A habit no doubt a left-over from his days on the street when he had nothing.

If I had heard it once, I had heard it dozens of times since we first worked together.

" It could be useful ," he had declared of the latest bit or piece he had picked up; a bit of wire, a piece of leather, or something else that one might consider rubbish. And somehow women were the subject of frequent humor about trinkets they acquired.

I give him credit for the wire, however. It had come in most useful when picking a lock. A cabinet that currently stood in the bedroom now contained those other bits and pieces.

"What have you there?" I asked as I approached the desk. It looked very much like a piece of charred wood.

"A souvenir?"

"In a manner of speaking. I found it under some of the other debris." He picked up the odd piece and handed it to me.

"Tell me what you see."

The object I had seen him inspecting closely at the warehouse site was a piece of charred wood. I picked it up.

"Something for your collection perhaps," I cheekily replied. "A paperweight perhaps?" I suggested.

"What else?"

"Black, charred wood, and somewhat oily."

"What do ye smell?"

"Something… sharp." I looked up at him.

Brodie nodded. "I smelled it as well."

"After all this time?" I set it back on the desk and rubbed my fingers, covered with soot.

"I suppose it is possible," he replied. "There is a man I know, a captain with the fire brigade. He might be able to tell us something about it."

Most curious, I thought. Particularly after all this time. Of course, it was possible that it was simply old residue from something that had been inside the warehouse.

I checked the time on my watch.

"I want to speak with Sir Laughton regarding the possibility of a trust that Simon Harris had set up, with the manager still paid after all these years."

It was possible that my great-aunt's attorney knew the man and might be able to explain how such a thing as a trust might work. It could explain a great deal. But there again, what did it mean if he had set up a trust?

"Ye have that theater performance tonight?" Brodie asked.

"We're to leave from Sussex Square at eight o'clock for the nine o'clock performance."

He nodded as he came around the desk

"It will give ye the chance to dress in yer finery for a change."

My finery?

"I prefer my walking skirts and boots. They are far more practical."

"A lady who prefers woolens and leather to silks and satins." He slipped his arms about me.

"Yes, please," I replied.

"Do ye miss fancy soirees, as her ladyship describes them, supper parties with champagne, and the companionship ye find there?"

He had become most serious.

"I have never been one for fancy soirees or supper parties with all of that gossip and pretentiousness. And you know well enough that I prefer my great-aunt's whisky to champagne." I wrapped my arms around his neck.

"As for companionship," I teased.

A dark brow angled sharply.

"I prefer the intrigue of an adventure."

"Adventure?"

I smiled. "Always, Mr. Brodie."