Chapter 4

Four

Mr. Brimley promptly arrived and joined us, along with the police surgeon who had been made aware of our arrival, as we entered that room where bodies were taken, usually an assortment of those found in the river for one reason or another—murder or suicide. It was not uncommon.

There were only two additional tables with sheets drawn over this late afternoon. However, the night awaited.

The surgeon who usually inspected the bodies brought there determined the cause of death, if that was possible, and then released them, identities unknown most usually, for burial in the pauper's graveyard. On other more rare occasions, as in the case of Charlotte Mallory's body, they were held for families to make the necessary arrangements.

Arrangements. Now there was a polite word that I thought was most odd. It usually referred to floral arrangements, enormous bouquets of hydrangeas that the staff at Sussex Square spread about the manor, or other bouquets that James Warren, my sister's fiancé, had sent her.

It had a different meaning here. How bodies were to be dispensed, tagged like a sack of potatoes, thrown into the back of a wagon or funeral van as the case may be, then carted off.

From a family of some position, Charlotte Mallory's body would no doubt be given all due respect. Most probably in the front parlor of the family residence at Knightsbridge for viewing. A tasteless ‘arrangement' with friends and family passing by.

Be over and done with it, to my way of thinking as I recalled my own preference for a Viking send-off.

"Ye are not a Viking," Brodie had pointed out when we had that particular previous discussion.

"Nevertheless," I told him. "I'll hold you to that."

He had looked at me with more than a little amusement. "I suppose with that red hair, ye might have a bit of Viking blood. I'll have to remember that, given the knife ye carry. However, ye will undoubtedly outlive me as well as everyone around ye. After all yer great-aunt is eighty-five years old."

She had left specific instructions in that regard as well, my sister declaring at the time that we were both heathens.

So here we were, and I couldn't help but wish a Viking send-off for Charlotte Mallory—off in a blaze of glory, so to speak, no weeping, whispering melodrama with mirrors draped in black.

The surgeon cordially greeted us, however he frowned when he greeted Mr. Brimley—professional disdain, no doubt.

Mr. Brimley had attended King's College medical school, yet chose to administer to the poor in the East End as well as his scientific endeavors. I would have trusted him with my life. In fact, I had previously. The narrow-eyed surgeon sniffed his greeting as if Mr. Brimley was beneath him, as he began his own inspection of the body.

He drew back the sheet over Charlotte Mallory's body. She was still clothed. He pointed out the stain on the front of her gown.

"As you can well see, the manner of death was a single wound here, with a blade. The location and the amount of blood lost indicates that the knife severed a major vessel or organ, with death very soon after."

"Was there any indication of any other disturbance to the body?" I asked, even though Mr. Burke's newspaper article had provided that information. By that, I thought it important to know if she had been intimately assaulted.

The surgeon frowned. "There were no indications of any other assault, Miss Forsythe," he bit off rather sharply.

"We'll not keep ye longer, sir," Brodie informed him. "We'll make our observations, then be on our way."

Clearly dismissed, the surgeon sniffed again. Perhaps a cold or some other misery with the wintry weather that had set in?

After he had gone, Mr. Brimley set about making his observations as well, while I set about taking down notes.

Brodie frowned as he made his own inspection of the body, gently easing Charlotte Mallory's head back and turning back the collar of her gown.

"No bruises," he commented. "What have ye found, Mr. Brimley?"

"A single wound with great force and most definitely the cause of death. The person was substantially taller by the angle of the wound as you can see here, and the slight bruising just above where the blade penetrated," Mr. Brimley indicated. "That would indicate that he was forced to lever the blade up when he struck, rather than straightaway. And the force of it that severed internal organs was most likely made by a man."

He proceeded to make other observations as I made notes.

"Hmmm, yes perhaps," he commented more to himself as he inspected one of the young woman's hands. He then took a vial of liquid from inside his coat.

"Something I came across that might tell us more," he explained.

He proceeded to scrape under the fingernails of both hands with a small knife then wiped the blade on a towel he retrieved from a cart beside the examination table. He then doused the towel with the grayish liquid.

"It would seem that she either didn't fight her attacker, or had no opportunity." Mr. Brimley looked up. "The chemical causes a reaction when it comes into contact with blood. It turns blue. There is no indication of it here as I would have expected."

"What else can ye tell us, Mr. Brimley?"

"The nails are not broken, which could mean as the surgeon indicated, that it was all over very quickly with no time for her to struggle against the murderer. However, there is what appears to be a thread just here." He indicated the nail of a finger on her other hand.

"I will need to look at it under a microscope." He retrieved the thread and tucked it into an envelope that he always carried.

Fascinating, I thought as I made additional notes.

"And there are scuff marks on her boots," Brodie added.

As I knew, that might or might not mean anything. However, Charlotte had been from a well-placed family and it seemed unlikely that her boots would be so badly scuffed, as opposed to someone who lived on the streets.

It did seem that Mr. Burke might not have been quite so thorough in his observations for that newspaper article. There had been no mention of scuff marks.

It appeared that our observations were at an end as a young constable appeared at the entrance to the holding room.

"A representative for the family has arrived for the body."

"Of course," Brodie replied. "We are quite through."

"What are ye thinkin'?" he asked as I stood in front of the chalkboard after we returned to the office on the Strand.

Only Brodie would ask what I thought.

"It is possible that piece of thread might tell us something," I replied. "Or perhaps it's nothing more than a thread from her gown." I continued to stare at the board.

"There is not much to go on. I suppose it could be useful to visit the print shop where she was found. It does appear from what we saw at the holding facility that Mr. Burke is not as well informed as he believes he is."

And not the first time, I thought to myself. A case of dubious journalistic skill for sensationalism.

"She was to be married. I wonder if her fiancé might know of anything in the matter," I added.

"It might be useful to speak with him," he agreed. "As they were not yet married, he will not be directly involved in the final arrangements." He frowned.

"What is it?"

That dark gaze studied me. "I know yer feelings in such things, to be sent off in a burning boat."

I sensed an objection that he hadn't spoken of before.

"However, perhaps there is something comforting to have a place to go, to be with them for a time."

I was fairly certain I knew where this came from. His mother had been placed in one of dozens unmarked graves at the edge of Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh. There was no way to know precisely where she had been buried, no headstone to mark the spot.

He had gone there and then left, unable to mourn her as he would have liked, to have finally been able to tell her—if one believed in such a thing—that he had found the man who killed her.

I laid the chalk on the rail at the bottom of the chalkboard, then went to where he sat across from the desk.

I was nine years when my mother died. My memories of her were filled with love, even though there was sadness as well. I could not say the same of my father. There were too many difficult memories of him.

They were both buried in the Forsythe family crypt. I refused to go there, although I knew that my sister had.

She was considerably younger than I, and her memories of that time were vague, if at all. She was not the one who found our father in the stables where he had taken his own life, and had almost no memory of him except a shadowy figure who was rarely present and then suddenly gone.

I did understand that going to the place where they were buried provided some measure of comfort for her. For myself, my memories of our mother were my comfort unlike those last memories of our father. But I knew it was different for Brodie.

He had never known his father. As for his mother? It was, I supposed, bittersweet. She had died quite young and tragically murdered. He had finally been able to find the one responsible, but I knew that made the loss no less painful, and then not even to have a marker at her grave…

"I think it's not where a person is buried," I told him, "but the memory you have of them, that is more comforting. Something they always use to tell you…"

" You are my brave, beautiful girl. You must be brave for your sister." My own mother had told me more than once.

"There when it was dark," I pulled another memory up. "And it seemed there were creatures in the shadows. Or the touch of her hand when she smoothed your hair back." I could imagine it with that thick mane of dark hair as I brushed it back.

"There inside you where no one can ever take it away."

He took my hand then and kissed it, that dark gaze fastened on me.

"As ye are inside me now."

We didn't return to Mayfair that night. Instead, we ate supper at the public house as we had so many times. I then took a box with supper back to the office for Mr. Cavendish and Rupert the hound.

Afterward, I placed a call to Sussex Square and spoke with Lily. I informed her that we had begun our inquiries as promised, with a reminder that clues often led to other clues and we would be proceeding in the morning. An inquiry case was not something that resolved overnight.

"How is she?" Brodie asked.

"Impatient. She wants answers, and we don't have any yet."

I caught the look he gave me. "That sounds familiar."

"I want to speak with Burke, and then pay a visit to the print shop."

"Ye dinna trust the newspaper man?"

"It's not a matter of trust. It's a matter of profit, selling as many newspapers as possible. He may know more that he's planning, for future issues. I want to know what he knows."

"I pity the poor man."

I ignored that comment. "What of Mr. Eddington, Charlotte's fiancé?"

He nodded. "I'll call on Sir Mallory's office and see if he will speak with me. It is a difficult time to be certain. It would be helpful to know if he intended to meet Miss Mallory that evening. However, he may refuse to speak with me."

"Not that it has ever stopped you," I pointed out.

It was late into the evening by the time I had made the last of my notes.

Brodie stoked up the fire in the firebox as I straightened his desk, which was buried in paperwork—a copy of the Times, a bill from the coalman, and other odd bits and pieces—which he claimed to know exactly what was there in a disheveled heap.

"What are ye about, lass?" he asked as I went into the adjacent room and turned back the blankets, then slowly removed the pins from my hair.

I was not good at early mornings, most particularly with only a faint sliver of light at the edge of the window shade, the cold as the fire in the coal stove had died down during the night. I burrowed closer to Brodie.

There was something to be said for the relative peace and quiet of the town house at Mayfair, with Mrs. Ryan's efforts in the kitchen in another part of the house, perhaps the smell of coffee brewing…

As opposed to the baying of the hound, and the noticeable creak of the door in the outer office.

"What the bloody hell?" Brodie exclaimed as he retrieved his revolver and left the bed while I curled into the warm place he had left that smelled faintly of cinnamon.

I heard another muttered curse, then "What the devil?" as there were sounds of the outside door suddenly jerked open.

It did appear that I wasn't going to get more sleep.

"Oh! Good mornin' to ye, Mr. Brodie."

I recognized that voice and the unmistakable Scots accent in spite of the months of lessons with her English tutors.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, taking the covers with me.

It was probably best that I rescued Brodie, though I was hardly dressed for callers. My camisole and bloomers were undoubtedly far more than he was wearing.

I went into the outer office, in my knickers and discovered him in his long woolen drawers and nothing else.

Quite a stirring sight. If not for our guest, I might have persuaded him to return to bed. As it was…

"Good morning, Lily," I greeted her.

She had set upon a tray of biscuits left from supper the night before, a sign that she had not eaten before departing Sussex Square.

"Do we need to pay the coachman?" I inquired.

She shook her head. "Mr. Hastings brought me."

I would have to have a conversation with him about allowing her to ride all over London in the wee hours of the day. It simply wasn't safe.

"I had my knife as ye told me," she announced as she took another biscuit from the plate.

Oh, dear. It did seem as if she was developing some familiar habits.

Lily sat at the small table in the main office, doing quite well with the biscuits. Brodie had disappeared back into the adjacent bedroom undoubtedly to make himself more presentable, dressed as he was in only his underdrawers.

However, it wasn't as if Lily hadn't seen a man in a state of undress in her former life in a brothel. "Is there coffee?" she asked.

Brodie had emerged from the bedroom somewhat more appropriately clothed, although his shirt was still unbuttoned as he hastily tucked the tails into his trousers. A most stirring sight.

"At this bloody hour? Only if ye know how to make it," he informed her.

Not a challenge for someone of her vast experience. She crossed the office, seized the pot from atop the coal stove, then filled it with water from the pitcher.

I watched with growing amusement as she rummaged about, found the tin of coffee, then added several spoonfuls and set it on the stove.

Brodie made a sound, crossed the office barefoot, made another sound, and then proceeded to add coal to the stove and stoked up the fire.

Lily returned to the table and seized another biscuit, looking at me thoughtfully as if there was nothing unusual about bursting in unannounced when it was barely light outside.

"I've been thinking…" Lily announced.

Brodie groaned. "Ye can find me at the public house." He returned to the bedroom, put on his boots and made a half-hearted attempt to tame that mane of dark hair.

The outer door to the office snapped shut behind him.

"Someone twist his tail?" Lily inquired, then with a look at me, "Did I interrupt somethin'?"

"Sit," I told her as I went to the stove where the pot now simmered. I badly needed coffee.

My relationship with Lily was… somewhat undefined. I was not old enough to be her mother—well, not unless I started quite young. I suspected our friendship needed some refining, as she was now my ward. Which brought me back to the present situation.

I had brought Lily from Edinburgh with an arrangement to provide her with an education and the ability to provide for herself. And admittedly, I was quite fond of her.

Brodie and I had agreed to make inquiries regarding Charlotte Mallory's death, which seemed warranted under the circumstances. When we had information that could be helpful we would provide that to Lily, as we would with anyone, client or no. However…

"Yer peeved at me," she said, most observant as I sat at the desk with cup in hand and thought how best to handle the situation.

She wasn't a child, therefore scolding her as one was not appropriate. Nor was she a woman full-grown, even with her background. She had learned to survive with spirit, determination, and grit, as my friend Templeton called it. A term she picked up on her tour through the United States.

Lily most certainly had that.

Brodie had marked our unmistakable resemblance and perhaps that was part of the reason we usually got on so well. I say usually . It did seem as if I now needed to step into another role with her.

‘Stepping in it' conjured all sorts of images that had to do with horses and other animals.

Very well. I had made this commitment, best to determine the appropriate way to handle the present situation. I started with a question, as I was most curious.

"I'm surprised you made it past the hound, and the office door was locked."

"The hound weren't no problem. He's right friendly if ye bring a bit of food with ye."

The apple and the tree came to mind.

" Wasn't ," I corrected her.

"That's wot I said."

With memories of my own distaste for lessons, I didn't belabor the point.

"The lock at the door?" I reminded her.

"That weren't no problem. I picked it, just like ye showed me."

Oh dear. She was most observant. This was not going at all well.

"Only to be done in the case of a necessary situation," I reminded her.

"It was necessary. I wanted to speak with the two of ye about my idea."

"It is not yet seven o'clock of the morning. Couldn't it have waited?"

"I wanted to make certain I spoke with ye before ye were out and about for the day. But with Mr. Brodie takin' himself off like that… Do ye think he was put out?"

That was undoubtedly an understatement.

"I will speak with him. I'm certain he will understand. Now, the reason you're here?"

"I want to help."

There it was. A flash of emotion in that blue gaze, the firm set of her mouth, the care for a friend tragically lost.

I fully understood. It was not unlike my determination when my sister had disappeared and her maid brutally murdered.

"Where do you propose to start?" I asked her, fully aware that any attempt on my part to explain the specifics of murder would only be met with stubborn resistance. A trait I had also been accused of possessing.

She looked around. "I suppose here at the office…"

"And?"

"Ye've said there are clues in an inquiry case," she pointed out, obviously thinking to win a point with my own words.

"Of course. How do you propose to find those clues?"

"I would go to the print shop. She might have said something to the owner that could provide a clue."

"And if there was nothing he could provide, what then?"

If the brain was a set of wheels, I could almost hear them turning, as her mouth set in a frown.

"I would speak with the police."

"They are not known to cooperate in private inquiries." If not for Brodie's connections after several years with the MET, we would not have been able to obtain some of the information in our past inquiry cases.

"I suppose I would have to rely on ye and Mr. Brodie and what yer able to learn."

"Precisely."

The frown deepened. "I see yer meaning. I suppose it's because I dinna have the experience and no one would be willing to meet with me because I'm a girl."

"You are a young woman, not a girl any longer," I pointed out. "However, it often does not matter what your age is. It is a fact that I must often find a way to out-smart or out-maneuver someone from time to time. It is something you will undoubtedly confront at some point."

"Mr. Brodie?" she asked.

That was an entirely different matter. I had discovered that it was not usually possible to do either where Brodie was concerned. It was difficult to keep one step ahead or even astride with the man because of his experience. Unless, of course, he allowed it.

"He has a great deal of experience in these things. Along with things that he has learned, often the hard way."

"Ye think it is too dangerous for me, and yet ye make inquiries with him."

"It is dangerous. However, I have learned a great deal along the way."

"I could learn."

I realized that the argument could go on and on. She was most obstinate.

"That is the most important part. There is a great deal you must learn before undertaking such a thing."

"I know how to read and write now, and I'm good with numbers."

"What do you know about people, beyond what you learned at The Church in Edinburgh?" A most unusual name for a brothel, but there it was.

"Wot do ye mean?"

I explained what I had learned about human nature in my travels and the inquiries I made with Brodie. The lies people told, what motivated them, who they might be protecting, where I went to find information—the newspapers, libraries, museums, and galleries. And those moments that became dangerous.

"I know wot yer sayin'. I need to learn more. It's only that, I want to help find the man who did this."

I heard the tears in her voice, and knew those same feelings so very well. I rounded the desk and put my arm around her shoulders.

"You will be able to in time, if that is what you choose."

Although I would not have wished wading through the dregs of humanity and depravity for her. That was a conversation for another day.

"Or perhaps you could join the theater like my friend, Templeton."

"How long will it take before I can join in yer inquiry cases?"

I answered with a question of my own.

"How long will you take to finish your lessons?"

"Aye, lessons first then."

"And no picking locks at six o'clock of the morning," I took the opportunity to make that point. It could be dangerous."

"I get yer meanin'."

She had obviously seen the revolver Brodie held when he came from the bedroom, that protective ‘street instinct,' as he called it.

"Can ye at least tell me what's to be done next?"

At last I was able to persuade Lily to return to Sussex Square, if somewhat reluctantly. I then joined Brodie at the Public House for breakfast, as I was starving.

"Ye sent her on her way?"

"Eventually," I replied over potatoes and sausage. "You might have stayed to assist in persuading her."

"How did she know where to find the key to the office?" he asked by way of avoiding a response to that.

I thought how best to answer that question.

"It's possible that it was unlocked from the night before." I tried that excuse and received a glare.

"I checked it myself," Brodie replied.

Best to get it over with, I thought.

"She picked the lock."

"Now, I wonder where might she have come by that skill?"

"Perhaps at The Church," I suggested. "It is something that might be useful…" I was definitely on thin ice here.

It was undoubtedly good that we were in a public place. Brodie made that sound I was quite familiar with and simply shook his head.