Chapter 20

Twenty

He rose from the desk and went to the chalkboard.

"It's here, in yer list of names." He picked up a piece of chalk, and began to connect each name to information we had learned as he explained.

"In that previous case of Amelia Harris's murder, Gerald Ormsby never went to trial after the one witness, Mr. Walmsley, disappeared.

"Within a matter of weeks after the charges were dismissed, Gerald Ormsby was dead, in what was described in the new articles ye found as a riding accident.

"We learned that Simon Harris established a trust very near the same time that the trial was dismissed, before he died in that fire," he continued.

"We also learned that substantial payments have been made from the trust in the care of Mr. Carney, as well as regular payments to the florist. And ‘coincidentally,' a rose was left at the site of both murders?

"Also, according to details of that trust, Mr. Carney, the former manager of Harris Imports, has been receiving a substantial annual stipend to manage the properties of the estate that include that warehouse site at St. Katherine's Docks.

"In addition, from what I was able to learn from Mr. Brown, Carney has been dealing in certain ‘shipping' operations."

He finished by circling Carney's name.

Coincidence? No coincidence.

Was it possible, I thought, that Gerald Ormsby's accident was no accident at all?

I studied the information in my first list.

Gerald Ormsby died after his trial was dismissed. That was followed by that tragic fire at the warehouse where Simon Harris had died.

"How is that connected to the murders of Charlotte Mallory and Elizbeth Cameron?" Even as I asked the question, the possibility was there.

"Ye said it yerself, lass, the rose in each case—like a calling card."

"What would be the motive?"

"The daughters of the two people directly involved in setting Gerald Ormsby free all those years ago."

If that was true..."And you're saying that Carney is responsible? But why now? What reason?"

"That is what I intend to find out. I'll be at the docks when Carney arrives for the day, for the work he supposedly does at the warehouse next to the Harris Import site. And ye need to pay a visit to the florist to see wot ye can learn about that payment made to them each month."

I knew precisely what he was doing, sending me off to question the florist. However, before I could protest...

"It's important," he explained. "It could tell us where the flowers are sent. That could tie Carney to the murders."

He was right of course. "And it keeps me out of the way if there should be any trouble from Carney."

There was that smile. "I wouldna want ye to hurt the man before I can question him further in the matter."

We'd had the conversation before, in fact several times, about that overbearing Scot habit of attempting to protect me. It could be important to learn what information the florist had. I would concede that much.

"I know the florist shop quite well. They are not open until nine o'clock. I have time to return to Mayfair for a change of clothes before calling on them."

He had already returned to the bedroom for clothes suitable for calling on a potential criminal, the coarse woolen trousers and jumper that he preferred to white dress shirts and a fine woolen suit.

I had learned that one could take the man out of the streets, but not the streets out of the man. And I had to admit that he cut quite a stirring figure with that dark beard and overlong dark hair under the cap he seized from the coat stand. Very much like a brigand or the smuggler he was going to see.

"I will see ye back here afterward," he said with a nod and a rather brief kiss.

"You will be careful..." But he was already gone, the sound of his boots on the stairs fading as he reached the street.

I made coffee, then dressed, as there was still sufficient time to return to Mayfair before setting off for Belgravia, where the florist shop was located. I sipped coffee as I studied the chalkboard and the information Brodie had added.

I trusted his experience, and it did seem that Mr. Carney might very well be the connection we were looking for.

By the time I was ready to leave, the rain had let up, and Mr. Cavendish appeared on the sidewalk.

"Do you want to take the hound along, miss?" he inquired.

I glanced past him to where Rupert lay in the alcove, head resting on the stones at the entrance, the rest of him still inside.

"He obviously needs the rest," I replied.

"He was out late last night in spite of the weather. Didn't show up until daybreak. Out causing a ruckus no doubt."

Mr. Cavendish managed to wave down a driver and I climbed aboard.

"No need to rouse him," I replied. "I believe it's called beauty sleep ," I added and gave the driver the location of the townhouse in Mayfair.

"Well, then, he won't be up and about until late in the day."

At the townhouse, I washed and dressed for my visit to the florist shop. Mrs. Ryan appeared in the parlor, carrying a tray with coffee and biscuits. There were a substantial number of the biscuits.

"Mr. Brodie is not with you," she commented.

"He's off and about on an inquiry," I replied as I entered notes into my notebook about that last conversation with him before he left the office.

"And you will be off as well?"

I had dressed for the weather in a long, split skirt, sturdy walking boots, and a warm jumper over my shirtwaist.

"A call I need to make this morning."

"The mail is on the hall table, and you might take the extra biscuits with you for the hound."

I smiled. In spite of her complaints when the hound had stayed over at the townhouse, she had a definite fondness for him. Though she would never admit it.

I waited for her parting comment. And there it was.

"They'll only grow stale, and no sense wasting the food."

Rupert would very definitely appreciate the thought.

I finished the biscuits and coffee, and placed a telephone call for a driver. I had just finished making my notes when Mrs. Ryan announced that he had arrived.

"There will be more rain," she said as she met me at the entrance. "Best wear your long coat and don't forget your umbrella. It's good that you have several, with the ones you leave at the Strand."

"It looked like it might clear for a while earlier," I commented. She shook her head.

"It will be a downpour most of the day. I have it on good authority."

We were obviously speaking of an Irish saint. She did believe in them.

"And you will be careful?"

She was much like an over-protective mother. Yet, I knew where it came from.

"Careful as church mice."

She made a scoffing sound very much like Brodie. "And you can protect yourself? There are dreadful people the places you go, and don't try to tell me different. Mr. Brodie should be with you."

I thought a flower shop hardly measured up to ‘the places' she referred to. I patted the bag I always carried.

Moyses Stevens's shop on Victoria Street in Belgravia might have looked like any other shop front on the street, with those narrow, bowfront windows, dwarfed on either side by establishments with far more imposing entrances. Except for the royal warrant displayed in one of those windows.

The shop and the creative, extravagant displays they provided were well known across London. My great-aunt always called on them for her special occasions, holidays, and my sister's upcoming wedding.

The shop bell rang overhead as I entered. I was always fascinated by the fact that the narrow entrance led to a narrow hall with a reception desk, the rest of the shop opening up beyond. And always a fresh, extraordinary arrangement on display at the desk, no matter if it was raining or snowing outside.

I was greeted by the woman at the desk and asked to speak with the owner. I assured her that it was not over some disappointment with their service. She proceeded to make Mrs. Stevens aware that I wanted to see her.

"Lady Forsythe," she greeted me when she arrived. "It is a pleasure to have you in our shop again."

We exchanged the usual greetings.

"Is there something I can assist with for yourself or possibly Lady Montgomery?"

"There is a matter of grave importance that I hope you can help with."

"In whatever way I can," she assured me.

We sat at the client desk.

"You have an account for Harris Trust, or possibly Simon Harris?"

She nodded. "Yes. It's an old account, paid regularly each month by the trust."

"Can you tell me what it is for?"

She sat back, somewhat surprised. "I am not in the habit of divulging client information. You do understand that I have a responsibility to maintain discretion for my clients."

I assured her that I did.

"I suppose there is no harm. The account is for flowers to be prepared on the eighth day of each month, and specifically made of white and pink lilies. Those were the instructions put in place after the deaths of Mr. Harris's wife and his daughter."

I assumed that meant delivered to a cemetery. I was not a regular visitor to them. It was something I hoped to put off for some time. And my send-off most certainly was not going to be in a gloomy, overcrowded piece of land with others moldering in their graves beside me.

I was quite certain that some London property developer would come along and seize the land for a new rail station or a cluster of residences. Someone would be given the responsibility of moving the graves, and I had visions of attendants losing their hold on my casket, dropping it, and my bones rolling out onto the ground. Not for me.

I was determined that my send-off would be very much like what my great-aunt had planned, in a Viking long boat, set afire, then put adrift out to sea where no one could drop me.

Of course, I did need to convince Brodie of my plan in the event that I went first.

"Where are they delivered?"

"The bouquets are not delivered; a man picks them up promptly at ten o'clock in the morning."

Carney, perhaps?

"He's never given his name. He simply provides the same note, signed by Mr. Harris when he first requested the bouquets."

I described Carney.

"That is the gentleman."

I would hardly have called him a gentleman.

"Has there ever been a request for other flowers? Perhaps red roses?" I inquired.

"Yes, quite recently. When he arrived to pick up the bouquets, he requested two red roses to be added to the order."

Two red roses, like a calling card left behind by the murderer.

"And he returned just yesterday. Quite unusual, I thought, as it was not the usual day of the month."

"Returned? For what?"

"For another red rose," she replied. "When my assistant commented on it, as it was unusual that someone would return for just one flower, he replied that it was for someone very special."

A third rose? For someone special? His next victim?

I thanked Mrs. Stevens for the information, then quickly left the shop.

On the ride back to the Strand, I kept thinking about what I had learned.

A third rose—for the next victim?

Carney had been the one to pick up the bouquets each month, that I assumed were meant for the graves of Harris's wife and daughter. But what did the roses have to do with it?

Red roses—symbolic for passion.

What did it mean? What was Carney's part in all of this? Was he the murderer?

According to the information Brodie had learned from Mr. Brown, the man had been operating a shipping enterprise downriver, unknown to the port authorities but well known to those who operated smuggling operations and other illegal activities.

He had worked previously for Simon Harris, as manager of the warehouse at St. Katherine's Dock, and then as a sort of caretaker, as it were, put in place to carry out certain tasks after Simon Harris died.

But for what reason?

We knew the ‘ opportunity' in each of the murders as well as the ‘ means , ' the bodies left mostly untouched with a red rose left on each one, like a calling card, a message left at each body.

But what was the motive?

Was it as Brodie had surmised, that it was related to the tragic murder of Amelia Harris years before?

Why now? And who was doing it?

I signaled the driver with my umbrella to quicken the return across the city.

Brodie cursed. It was well past ten o'clock in the morning and the man still hadn't shown.

He had reached the docks in good time and waited in the shelter of the adjacent warehouse where he could keep watch when Carney arrived.

Workers had eventually arrived, not the same as the ones he'd seen earlier, but a scraggly lot from the streets. It seemed the dockworkers had chosen not to return to work, as those meetings Effie had spoken of apparently continued.

The warehouse manager looked up as Brodie approached.

"If you lookin' for work, there's enough to go round," the man told him. "I have a ship coming in today and I need to move all of this to make room. The bloody strike is costing me every day, and now a new cargo. But you look as if you can handle the work."

Brodie explained that he wasn't there for work, he was looking for Carney.

"The filthy bugger," the man spat out. "He knew we had cargo comin' in, but it's like him to disappear when you need him. He was here before first light, said he had to take care of something downriver." The man gestured across the loading bay of the warehouse.

"Took off out of here like it was somethin' urgent, and he ain't been back. If I wasn't so hard-up for workers, I'd send him on his way for good. Now I have to get these men working meself to make room for that cargo that's due in."

Brodie thanked him for the information. He had an uneasy feeling about what the man told him. Something urgent downriver that had Carney at the dock before first light?

Instead of going to the high street to find a driver and return to the office, Brodie returned to site that had once belonged to Harris Imports.

He shook his head at the thought, from that instinct acquired on the streets. She would have laughed at the notion, considerin' the number of times that he had teased her about her woman's intuition, and that little voice. But it was there, and if he was honest with himself, she was right more often than not.

She called it ‘that voice' that had cautioned her more than once. Call it whatever she liked—intuition or experience, it was there now taking him toward that locked storage room that had survived the fire years before.

With the warehouse reduced to burnt-out timbers and ash, what was the reason to lock the storage room after the fire?

Tools perhaps? Or possibly items that Carney used for that downriver enterprise Mr. Brown had spoken of?

Only now, as he approached, the padlock was open and the latch pushed aside. He slipped his hand into his coat and retrieved the revolver as he slowly pushed the door open to the storeroom.

Daylight slanted in through the opening and revealed no one was inside. He returned the revolver to the waist of his trousers and took out the hand-held light he had brought with him.

He quickly swept the light across the storeroom, the walls where the usual tools a dock worker might use hung—spars and grappling hooks. A cot for sleeping stood to one side, along with a handful of a man's clothes, the room apparently where Carney slept of a night. Not what Brodie would have expected with those large sums of money withdrawn according to that bank ledger.

There were bottles on a shelf. Two empty, one half full.

It seemed the man was inclined to the drink with a preference for gin, along with a wet spot where he had no doubt spilled the drink before leaving.

Intuition or experience, Brodie brushed his fingers across that wet spot. More gin? It was a wonder the man was in any condition to leave on that ‘urgent matter,' he thought as he went to smell the residue fully expecting a bit of those familiar fumes. He suddenly stopped.

Not gin, nor any other soothing spirits that might be found in the local tavern but something else—something he knew well enough from past experience—chloroform.

It was faint, but the sharpness of it was still there. Now the question was, what need did a man like Carney have for chloroform?

He left the storeroom as he found it, then quickly made his way to the high street behind the docks, found a driver, and gave him the address of the office on the Strand.

Bloody rain, Mikaela thought, as she arrived back at the office and stepped down in the flood of water that washed over the curb onto the sidewalk.

With the rain, the flooded streets, and the usual London traffic, it had taken very nearly an hour to return. It was now close to midday, and Mr. Cavendish was there, squinting up at her from under the bill of his hat through the pouring rain.

"It's good to see you, miss." There was an urgency in the greeting. "Mr. Brodie returned earlier. He's up there now with a visitor."

A visitor? And that unmistakable urgency? Had Brodie discovered something after he left to find Carney?

I quickened my steps, mindful of the wet stairs, as Mr. Cavendish saw the need for some reason to announce my arrival and rang the service bell on the end of that rope at the top landing.

The door opened before I reached it. That same urgency was there in Brodie's expression, and on Munro's face as well.

I could tell that something had happened.

"What is it?" I asked.

Brodie was there as I entered the office, his hand on mine. I glanced about the office, past Munro to the desk, and saw it. A single red rose lay on the desk.