Chapter 2

Two

THE NEXT MORNING

Brodie had left earlier for the office on the Strand, while I chose to remain at Mayfair, staring at the blank page in my typewriter. Several more pieces of paper wadded up in my attempts at the first chapter in that new book lay scattered about the carpet under my desk.

I looked up to find Mrs. Ryan glancing about the sea of crumpled paper, a bemused expression on her face, and a tray with yet another pot of coffee—the third that morning—held before her. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen it all before.

"Going well, is it?" she asked.

She had been my housekeeper for several years, and in my great-aunt's employ before that. She was Irish through and through, most usually with a twinkle in her eyes, dimmed two years before at the tragic murder of her daughter.

Brodie and I had eventually solved that first case together after the failures of the police. And as I had told him the night before, family wasn't always defined by blood relations.

From my own experience I believed that it was defined by the people in one's life who mattered. One of the persons who mattered now stood looking at me with a curious expression.

"It does seem as if we will have enough paper to start the afternoon fire," she commented as she set the tray on the desk.

And that other Irish quality, the comment with just a bit of humor as well as a tart opinion. I was quite use to it. She did, after all, have red hair, although a bit lighter with the hint of gray.

"And the morning paper as well," she added as she removed it from the tray and handed it to me. "Along with the morning post."

She poured more coffee for me as I opened the paper.

"I will be going to the grocers today," she announced as she began picking up wadded pieces of paper.

"Is there anything special that Mr. Brodie might like for supper tonight?"

I didn't hear the last part as I set my cup back down rather sharply. It clattered on the saucer.

"Is here something wrong?"

I stared at the glaring headline at the front page, then scanned the accompanying article by Theodolphus Burke of the Times.

I was somewhat acquainted with Mr. Burke. In spite of the fact that he had a habit of sensationalizing a story for his own glorification, he had been with the Times for several years and enjoyed a certain notoriety as well as a considerable readership. I ignored his disdain over my novels.

He had written extensively about the murder of Rory's mother, in that previous inquiry case. He had also written extensively about the Whitechapel murders in the East End of London a handful of years earlier, the killer never found.

Now, I stared at his article with the glaring headline:

HAS THE WHITECHAPEL KILLER RETURNED?

A young woman had been found stabbed to death. Accompanying that horrific headline was the victim's name that seemed to leap off the page at me.

The body of Miss Charlotte Mallory of Knightsbridge was found outside an establishment near Oxford Street...

"Is something wrong, miss?" Mrs. Ryan inquired.

I collected myself and quickly folded the paper, not wanting to cause her any distress. We had eventually found the one responsible for her daughter's murder, but I was mindful that the pain of such things never went away.

I tucked the paper into my bag that usually held my writing pen, notebook, and the revolver Brodie had given me.

It wasn't that she wouldn't find out about it. The London gossip mill was most proficient in spreading stories, and the ones about the Whitechapel murders had kept the city filled with terror and almost morbid curiosity years before. Mr. Burke had built quite a reputation on those unsolved murders.

"I will be going to the office. I will need a driver," I decided as I crossed the parlor, then ran up the stairs to change my clothes. Emma Fortescue would have to wait!

THE STRAND

"I read about it earlier," Brodie commented as I paced the office. "My thought is that it's not the same as the Whitechapel murders. Those victims were all found in the East End, and known to solicit customers from time to time. This young woman… do ye know her?" He looked at me with a thoughtful expression.

"In a manner of speaking. She gave Lily music lessons after Mr. Finch was dismissed."

That had not been entirely unexpected after the somewhat colorful performance Lily gave at Sussex Square with a bawdy song she'd learned on the street. I had commended her on her skill at the piano—most creative.

"Music?" Brodie replied.

I nodded. "After that previous performance at Sussex Square, it was determined that perhaps he was not best suited for her. It was thought that someone else might be better suited. Charlotte Mallory was Lily's instructor for the past several months. They got along quite well. This will go very hard for Lily."

Lily had once lived in a brothel in Edinburgh. We met during a previous case. Point of fact, she had saved my life.

She was street-wise beyond her years and might well have spent the rest of her life in that brothel rather than merely as the young lady's maid there when Brodie and I encountered her.

I was quite fond of her and couldn't bear the thought that was all her life would be. I had spoken with Brodie on the matter since it affected us both. In the end, I had brought her to London as my ward with the promise of an education other than the street education she had acquired, along with the opportunity for a better life.

She was intelligent, had a mind for numbers and codes, and had also proven herself quite accomplished with clues we uncovered in a previous case.

Our inquiries often took both Brodie and me far afield at odd times of the day or night, and it was therefore decided that it was best for her to live with my great-aunt. Or I should say that my great-aunt decided it.

Not that the arrangement was without some concern, as my great-aunt was eighty-six years old, somewhat of a free spirit, as my friend Templeton described her, and at the time was planning to go on safari to Africa, a trip that eventually included Lily and myself.

We were gone for almost four months. During that time, I took the place of her academic tutor, more or less, as academics were never a favorite pastime. But we both survived the arrangement.

Charlotte Mallory had been her music teacher before our departure some months before, and Lily had recently resumed those lessons with her.

She was only a handful of years older than Lily, and they were soon thick as thieves, as the saying goes, with a friendship that went beyond student and teacher. Miss Mallory hadn't blinked an eye when Lily acquainted her with that particular song learned on the streets. It had reduced Charlotte Mallory to laughter until she could hardly breathe.

And now? I could only imagine that the news would be devastating for Lily.

"Will you see what you can learn about it from the police?" I asked.

Brodie still had a close relationship with a handful of officers at the MET and relied on them from time to time as needed, along with his old friend Mr. Conner, who was now retired but shared drinks with some of his fellow police at the local taverns. And then there was Mr. Dooley, who had recently been promoted to inspector.

"I'll see what can be learned. Hopefully the lads have more information than Mr. Burke has been able to learn."

As I knew all too well from past encounters with Mr. Burke, it was not unusual for him to hold back information, to be written about in subsequent articles, hooking the readership in like fish.

"What about Lily?" he asked.

"I need to go to Sussex Square…she needs to be told," I replied. "She will have questions. I hope she hasn't read about it in the daily. Mr. Burke is particularly known for his somewhat graphic and gruesome details. I wouldn't want her to read about it first."

"I'll put a telephone call in to Mr. Dooley." That dark gaze met mine. "Then I'll go with ye. No need to do this alone."

"Thank you." I appreciated that very much. Both were Scots and somewhat given to shutting things away inside until they festered, much like a boil. He had a way with her, an understanding that came from a shared background, even though he had shared more than once that we were quite alike.

"She is a lot like ye, even though there's no blood between ye. She has a temper, and will want justice for her friend."

There it was. I had no idea where he came by that.

I put through a telephone call to Sussex Square. It was picked up by the house steward. I asked to speak with my great-aunt and explained what we had learned.

"Oh, dear," she replied. "Yes, of course. I do understand. Mr. Symons has not yet brought in the daily. I will see that she is not aware until your arrival. Such dreadful business."

We arrived at Sussex Square, no more than an hour later. Mr. Symons, my great-aunt's head footman greeting us at the door.

"Good day, Mr. Brodie, Miss Mikaela," he greeted us, the use of my name a habit of many years, no disrespect toward Brodie. He leaned slightly closer.

"I intercepted the daily at her ladyship's request," he assured us. "Miss Lily finished her writing exercise some time ago, and is presently in the sword room, practicing, I believe."

It was then my great-aunt swept into the main entrance to greet us. I say swept, as that was usually the way of titled ladies. She had re-defined the word over the years. It was more of a marching, take-charge gait, an authoritative style that immediately put anyone in a room on notice that here was a woman of title, presence, and no small amount of power. I adored her.

"Mr. Symons has informed you?" she inquired. I nodded.

"The sword room is possibly not the preferable location to deliver such news. She will be most upset. She and Charlotte Mallory did get on so well, more like dear friends than instructor and pupil."

Lily was the sort who kept things inside herself, I had learned. The bravado and stubbornness were often a shield she kept firmly in place around her emotions. It was something I understood.

I handed Mr. Symons my umbrella and hat. When I would have headed for the staircase that led to the second floor and the sword room, Brodie laid a hand on my arm.

"I'll see to the lass. I wouldna want her to take yer head off in a fit of temper when she hears the news. I prefer it right where it is on yer shoulders."

When I would have protested, he shook his head.

"It would be best if it comes from someone who has experienced this sort of thing before."

We waited in the solar where my great-aunt had previously installed a miniature jungle in anticipation of the safari we had recently embarked upon.

The plants were still there and added an exotic atmosphere to the large room that opened out onto the pavilion in warmer weather.

There was also the Egyptian sailboat with sail unfurled, as part of the replica of the Nile River, merely a shallow stream of water that flowed through the solar, another of my great-aunt's eccentricities as the gossip pages often reported. Everyone who had been invited to that particular celebration had marveled at it.

Not that she gave a fig what other people thought.

"Whisky, my dear?" she inquired now as we sat at a nearby table.

I nodded. I had a feeling we were all going to need it, once Brodie was able to persuade Lily to join us. And it was after the noon hour, after all.

I was encouraged as an hour passed and there was no clamor from the second floor, or wild dash of servants fleeing for their lives, including Mr. Munro, who had appeared with said whisky.

He and Brodie came from the streets to London together as boys, both orphans who escaped the poverty of Edinburgh. Munro was now manager of my great-aunt's estates, that included Old Lodge in the north of Scotland and her properties in France, as well as Sussex Square.

"It will be all right, miss," he assured me as I held out my glass for a second portion.

I did hope he was right. I had just taken a sip when Brodie and Lily appeared at the entrance to the solar. There was no sight of blood; Brodie's hand lay on Lily's arm where it looped through his.

It did seem as if there might have been a few tears when Brodie told her of Charlotte Mallory's death. Yet the gaze that met mine now, a very striking shade of blue, was quite composed.

We remained at Sussex Square, and then took supper later that evening with my great-aunt and Lily, who remained unusually quiet rather than her usual boisterous comments over something or another.

After supper she asked to read the newspaper with the article Theodolphus Burke had written.

My first instinct was to protect her from that. But my great-aunt pointed out the obvious, that it would be all over London and Lily would see it sooner or later, or undoubtedly hear some overly dramatic and colorful version of it. Brodie was in agreement.

She frowned as she read the article, there was then the obvious question from those glaring headlines.

"Could it be the same man who killed those other women?"

"It is always possible," Brodie replied. "Or it might be someone entirely different."

"The article says that the police will be investigating. If it is the same one, they have not been successful in the past."

For a girl who once could only read numbers in the amounts the prostitutes charged their customers and a handful of words when they gave her a note, her reading skills had substantially improved since arriving in London.

It occurred to me that Lily had changed in other ways as well, that included the sad news that day. A little bit more of the young girl was gone, replaced with that sad, solemn expression.

"Aye," Brodie replied. "A most difficult case. Perhaps this one will be quickly resolved."

Lily nodded as she stared down at that glaring headline of the newspaper on her lap with a frown. Then she looked up, the expression at her face now quite determined.

"I want to hire you to find who did this."

To say there was a moment of surprised silence is an understatement. I looked over at Brodie. Of all the things I might have imagined when she learned about Charlotte Mallory's murder, this was not it.

Hire us to find the young woman's murderer?

"A marvelous idea!" my great-aunt announced, lifting her whisky glass. "You will begin immediately of course."