Chapter 5

Five

After breakfast Brodie put out a call to the office of Sir Mallory. He hoped to speak with Charlotte Mallory's fiancé in spite of the fact that it was a difficult time. While I set off for the print shop where she was found murdered.

The shop just off Oxford Street was well known around London as a place where one might find fine stationary and also have invitations and announcements printed. A royal warrant was in the bow window that fronted the street, a clerk looking up as I entered the shop.

I knew it well from having ordered invitations for my great-aunt's eighty-fifth birthday celebration. The main shop was on the ground floor with the presses, cartographers, and artists that the owner retained on the second floor above.

The owner of the shop was Hiram Adams. I was greeted by his son Geoffrey, whom I remembered from the year before.

"Lady Forsythe. It is a pleasure to see you again. You're here regarding Lady Lenore's invitations… They are not quite ready."

Ah, the wedding, full steam ahead.

"Not this morning. Either she or Lady Montgomery will make arrangements to have them delivered."

"Of course. How may we serve you today?"

I explained the reason I was there, mindful of the fact that some people can be put off by inquiries made by a woman about things such as murder, something I had encountered from time to time. I had simply learned to ignore questions from those I spoke with, and only found it necessary to mention Brodie on a handful of occasions. The title I had the unfortunate luck to be born with, courtesy of my father, very often opened doors that not even Brodie could have opened short of picking a lock.

As it was, I simply explained that Mr. Brodie and I were making private inquiries on behalf of a client in the matter. That was usually enough.

"I understand," Geoffrey Adams replied. "Dreadful business and in front of the shop. Such a tragedy."

He was about to close for the day when he heard a woman scream and discovered that Miss Mallory had been attacked in front of the shop. He ran out and saw the man and woman who had found her body.

"Did you recognize them?" I asked in the chance that, if so, I might be able to question them about what they had seen.

"Not at all. It seems they were passing by and found the young woman."

What could he tell me about what he saw then? On the street? Perhaps someone rapidly leaving the area afoot, or by carriage?

"The man from the newspaper asked the same questions," he replied, no doubt referring to Theodolphus Burke. "I didn't see anything before it all happened. I had returned to the back to retrieve an order for another customer. There was just that poor young woman who had just picked up her order here—Miss Mallory. Wedding invitations, so very tragic."

"Did she mention any difficulty? An encounter on the street before arriving that might have bothered her?" I then inquired.

"It was the usual conversation when a customer picks up an order," Geoffrey Adams replied. "She seemed very pleased with the invitations when I showed them to her. She paid for them. Then she was on her way to post a letter across the way. She asked if the office was still open. There was something in her manner…" He shook his head.

"Was there anything else?" I asked.

He shook his head. "The constables were here then, taking care of the body and asking questions for their report. There wasn't much that I could tell them, as I was in the back of the shop when the alarm went out and hadn't seen anything."

"You said there was something in her manner when she inquired about the post office hours. Did she say anything about that?"

"No, I'm sorry."

I then asked if there was anything else that he remembered from that night, anything that might seem insignificant.

He started to shake his head once more, then stopped.

"There was this. It seemed odd afterward," he replied as he went to a side table and returned with a slender porcelain vase with a single red rose in it.

"The woman with her husband who found Miss Mallory, said that this was lying across the body when they found her. It was in the gutter after the constables left. They didn't seem to think it was important."

"Did she have it with her when she came into the shop?"

He was thoughtful for a moment. "I don't remember seeing it. I suppose it is possible that she encountered a flower seller nearby after she left. They're usually about even late into the day."

The way he described it, it was almost as if…

It was a morbid thought, still the fact that he didn't recall Charlotte having the rose when she entered the shop made me question how she had come by it. Then the description from the man and woman who found her, that it was lying across her… As if the murderer might have placed it there?

I contemplated that possibility as I sat at the desk in the office on the Strand.

I had explained to Geoffrey Adams that Brodie and I were making private inquiries on behalf of a client regarding Charlotte Mallory's murder, and asked if I might have the rose.

I had no idea what it meant, if anything, yet the circumstances seemed most curious. It now sat on the desk across from my usual place opposite Brodie when he was there.

It was badly wilted and much the worse for having been tossed aside, drooping over the top of a glass jar that had once held a healing salve that Mr. Brimley had provided for Brodie during one of our inquiries.

I stared at the chalkboard where I had made notes of my visit with Mr. Adams. There were more questions than answers along with the particularly nagging question, who would want to harm a young woman from a prominent family?

And not for the usual reasons that we encountered in other inquiry cases. Most particularly in a part of the city that was heavily patrolled by the MET. It made no sense, but then as I had learned, murder rarely did.

As I had discovered in the past it was usually not random. There was always a reason behind such a horrible act. It was merely a matter of finding what that reason was, and the person who had committed it.

Greed? Passion?

It seemed that neither of those were the reason in Charlotte Mallory's case. According to the police surgeon's examination, there was no intimate violation. And she still had her handbag with a good number of coins in it. The motive obviously was not robbery.

What then had been the reason for such a heinous crime?

Motive, means, opportunity.

Two were obvious. The opportunity had been outside the print shop, where Charlotte Mallory had gone unescorted. The means had been that single knife wound. That brought me back to the question of motive.

I had learned from Brodie that it was a matter of digging deeper, following even the most obscure or seemingly unimportant piece of information.

He had not returned since our parting, there was no note left about as had become his habit when he went off to follow up on some other bit of information.

Therefore, I decided to call on Mr. Brimley and see if he was able to learn anything from that cloth fiber he had found under Charlotte's fingernail.

In turn, I left a note for Brodie—something that was quite foreign to me, yet something I discovered that I liked very much.

He had explained it, "When ye go off on yer own, a simple note would do. If ye get into a stramash, then I can help ye, lass."

I had never before felt the need to leave a note with anyone, except for my great-aunt. I respected her, it was as simple as that.

However, I did have to admit that when making our inquiries on behalf of a client, even if that client was Lily, things often took an unexpected turn. In the past I had found myself in a difficulty and only by good fortune, and perseverance on Brodie's part, had I escaped relatively unscathed.

Well, there was that one incident in our first inquiry when I had been shot. I did have to admit that was not a pleasant experience. And now?

As we were both learning what this new relationship between us meant, I realized that he was right about certain things. Not that I would have admitted to all of them. However, leaving a note seemed a small concession to my previous way of doing things. And he had seemed most accommodating when I pointed out that he might do the same.

I locked the door behind me as I set off. On the street below the office, Mr. Cavendish summoned a driver for me.

"When you have time, miss, there is a matter I would like to discuss with you," he said as a driver circled round his hansom cab from across the street, then angled his rig through the usual midday traffic to pull alongside the curb.

The request seemed somewhat unusual and he seemed almost...shy about it. And that was not a word I would usually think of regarding Mr. Cavendish.

"Of course. Is there some difficulty?" I asked.

"No, not at all," he assured. "It is simply a matter I need some assistance with… regarding a lady, you see."

A lady? I didn't actually see what it was, but I liked Mr. Cavendish, née the Mudger, very much. He had obviously led an adventurous life, now relegated to that platform, but with a keen sense of loyalty to Brodie and me. Not to mention Rupert the hound. I was happy to assist with something that seemed important.

"It can wait," he said then. "You're obviously off and about on some matter of importance."

"When I return?" I suggested.

He nodded and rolled back from the edge of the curb as I climbed into the cab.

Mr. Brimley's shop was just up from the docks in one of the poorest parts of the East End. There he dispensed medications for ailments, set broken bones, and assisted women ‘in need.'

It was where he also made his own scientific inquiries with specimens in jars or under a microscope, and on occasion had removed a bullet from a wound. I could personally attest to his skills as a surgeon.

His assistant, Sara, greeted me as I arrived. She was quite young, but wasn't at all put off by the sight of wounds, broken bones, or other ailments among those who sought Mr. Brimley's care. She would make a good surgeon, he had declared, with a natural curiosity about the human body.

Mr. Brimley was in the back of his shop, his laboratory as he called it, with that shelf the length of one wall for his microscopes, pill-press machine, and camera that he had previously acquired.

"Ah, Lady Forsythe," he greeted me, looking up from a steel tray before him on the counter opposite, wearing magnifying goggles and looking much like an enormous bug seated on the stool before the counter.

"I was hoping to speak with you or Mr. Brodie today."

"You have something regarding the thread you discovered?" I had been hopeful although fully prepared that the thread might have been too small to reveal anything that might be useful.

"Indeed."

He removed his goggles, very similar to the ones my aunt wore when she was driving about London, terrorizing people on the streets in her automobile.

These goggles were quite different as Mr. Brimley had explained. The lenses were actually magnification glass, to provide him a means of studying something other than through the much smaller lens of a microscope. It worked quite well when studying body parts, he had informed Brodie and me.

"Something important?"

"That would be for you to determine," he replied. "I have it here for you to take a look." He pulled out a stool before the countertop, checked the viewer of the microscope, then stood back.

I sat atop the stool, removed my hat, then peered through the microscope onto the glass slide below. With the magnification of the lens, it looked as if I was staring at a large log, which in fact was the fiber Mr. Brimley had retrieved.

"You might want to focus it," he suggested pointing out the knob at the side of the microscope.

I adjusted it for a clearer look at the fiber.

"It's dark blue," I commented.

He nodded. "What else do you see?"

"It's quite smooth." I looked up from the microscope.

"You have a keen eye, Miss Forsythe. What might those two things tell you?"

"The garment was dark blue, possibly wool, perhaps high quality by the smoothness of the fiber, possibly from a cut or tear in the fabric. From our examination of the body at the mortuary, Charlotte Mallory was wearing a burgundy-colored gown with jacket over, not dark blue."

"My guess would be that it is a very fine worsted wool, and with the color, the sort found in a gentleman's very fine coat," he concluded.

Fine gentleman's clothing.

"Mind you, she could have come by it before her encounter with the murderer."

It might mean something, or nothing. I thought of her fiancé, Daniel Eddington, or possibly another student she had called on before going to the print shop, or any other possibility where she might have come in contact. Except for that one glaring detail.

"Under one of her fingernails, Mr. Brimley?"

"There is that, and quite firmly lodged there was well. Almost as if…"

I finished the thought. "As if she had reached out when she was struck down, in an attempt to defend herself, or clutching at her attacker's coat after he struck.

"And one more small detail," he replied. "Take another look. Most particularly at one end."

As I did, he reached out and turned the knob at the side of the microscope. It gradually emerged, something I had not noticed. A small sliver of something embedded in the end of the fiber.

"The remnants of silk thread," Mr. Brimley said then. "Whoever the man was who wore that coat, is most definitely a gentleman of some means."

I made my notes before leaving his shop. I had no idea yet what any of it might mean, if anything, about Charlotte Mallory's murder. It was possible that the fiber and thread were from a coat she had thought of wearing then decided against it. Or possibly from that of her fiancé, Daniel Eddington. I needed to know more.

I returned to the office on the Strand to discover that Brodie had returned as well.

He had met earlier with the two constables who first arrived outside the print shop when Charlotte Mallory's body was discovered.

Someone, perhaps Mr. Cavendish, had brought luncheon from the Public House across the Strand. Brodie, dear man, had placed the platter atop the coal stove to keep it warm.

It was their version of workingman's stew, chunks of meat and potatoes with a portion of carrots and celery pieces. The sort of meal that was fairly inexpensive and would stick to a man's or woman's bones through the rest of the day, not to mention that it warmed one on a rainy, cold day.

I retrieved the rose, much the worse for wear, and placed it in a pitcher of water. Brodie looked up from the desk and frowned.

"A token of affection?"

"It was found at the curb where Charlotte Mallory was murdered. According to the man and woman who found her, it was lying across her body. Why would someone do that?"

"Perhaps she had it with her."

"Mr. Adams didn't recall it being with her when she arrived at the shop."

I set the pitcher on the desk then went to the coal stove.

"Oh, bless Mr. Cavendish. I'm starving."

"Not the Mudger. I brought it back from the Public House. The damned hound almost took my leg off for it."

"That will teach you to next time bring a cake or biscuit for him."

I smiled as I brought the plate to the desk and sat across from him. "It serves you right for speaking badly of him. He does have a particular liking for the stew from the Public House."

"He has a particular liking for anything that is not moving," Brodie replied.

It was a frequent comment.

"What else were you able to learn from the printer?"

"It appears there was nothing unusual about her visit. She wasn't upset nor did she indicate that she was fearful of anything. She paid for her print order—invitations for the wedding, then left. It was just after that the man and woman made him aware that something had happened."

"She gave no indication of any difficulty?"

"None, so it would seem that the attack might have been the first encounter," I replied. "I then paid a visit to Mr. Brimley, most interesting."

Brodie looked up from a piece of paper he had been studying.

"Aye?"

"The fiber that he found under Charlotte Mallory's fingernail was most distinctive."

He frowned. "Distinctive?"

"A very fine, dark blue worsted wool, along with silk thread at one end. As if Charlotte might have clutched at the man's sleeve."

And not at all what I had first thought, that this crime might have been the sort committed by the Whitechapel murderer.

"That could be useful," Brodie admitted.

I angled a glance down at the paper in front of him. "What have you there?"

"The police report from the night of the murder."

At my look of surprise, he explained. "Mr. Dooley made a copy of the report. His handwriting is… Let us just say that it's a wonder he made inspector."

"Let me have a go at it. I've had some experience… Mr. Munro's writing leaves a great deal to the imagination."

"Well, when ye learn things on the fly, often times with the local police after ye and no proper schoolin', ye make do with wot ye can."

"Your own handwriting as well?" I replied as his was no better, a surprise that he had made inspector.

"In code perhaps?"

"Ye are a cheeky lass." He pushed the paper across the desk. "See wot ye can make of it."

I had to agree that the writing was quite… unique. However, with past experience with Brodie's handwriting—it did seem that he had a habit of mixing up letters, I was able to make out most of the words in the report.

"There wasn't anything unusual noticed about the body, there were no witnesses other than the man and woman who found the body, nor from the shopkeeper. It does seem as if the murder was recent, as the body was still warm." I looked up.

"Nothing unusual? That cannot be all… something is missing, and there is no mention of the rose."

"Constable Dwyer is young, only in service of the MET for less than six months," Brodie replied. "Details come with experience. I wasna able to speak with his partner as it was his day away."

"And in the meantime, the murderer is still out there, and we have nothing to go on."

"Not precisely."

"How not precisely ?"

"There is always something to be learned, even when it appears there are no clues."

We'd had many conversations during our partnership since that first case. I was always fascinated by the way his mind worked. Of course, much of it came from his experience with the MET, previous inquiry cases, and the fact that he'd lived on the streets for a time.

"What have we learned?"

"First, the body was not disturbed other than that one wound. Second, it would seem that she didn't fall to the sidewalk after the attack but was lowered most carefully according to what the young constable told me." he added.

I listened fascinated.

"Then there is the flower, which was found, laid across the body, ye say. Not the manner of something simply discarded or dropped by the victim. And ye said the shopkeeper didna notice that she had it when she called at the shop for her purchase."

And not a crime of passion, at least not in the sense of what had been proposed about the Whitechapel murders. I was fascinated, not the first time, by his observations and possible conclusions.

"It would seem that Miss Mallory was not frightened or alarmed," he continued. "She did not cry out, and other than that fiber Mr. Brimley found, it does not appear there was a violent struggle. Then for her to be lowered to the sidewalk with the flower, almost as if…"

"As if?"

"It's just a thought, however it's as if she was being laid out most proper possibly for someone to take notice. Not in the usual manner I have found in the past."

Not in the usual manner. What did that mean, I wondered? Very strange.

"It seems that the burial is to take place on Saturday." He handed me the afternoon edition of the Times, folded to the society page with the announcement and the location of the burial, along with a poem about a parent's remembrance of a child:

‘Too soon, sweet child, whose music touched the soul. I will listen to the morning and hold you once more. '

That did seem a bit overdone, however, I supposed each to his own. And it had mentioned Charlotte's talent in music. I did wonder who might have written it.

Sir Mallory perhaps? From his reputation prosecuting criminals I wouldn't have expected such flowery words. Possibly written by Charlotte's mother?

Saturday. Four days after she was killed, the usual day of the week for those of certain status in society to be buried, and most expeditiously out of concern for disease.

Those not of a certain status were usually buried on Sunday, with unclaimed bodies either placed in a pauper's grave or simply dropped into the Thames. An unpleasant memory that, from our first inquiry case.

"A Viking ceremony would be far more efficient," I commented.

"Ye are such a heathen," Brodie replied. "The funeral is necessary for people to mourn," he pointed out.

"I think it would be much better to appreciate someone when they are alive," I replied.

"Has anyone ever told ye that ye have a peculiar way about such things?"

"My sister believes it's quite barbaric," I admitted. "However, my great-aunt is of much the same opinion."

"Of course," Brodie replied. "I'm surprised she hasna decided to go out with yer ancestor's sword and shield in that boat she has in the salon at Sussex Square."

"She has mentioned it, however I believe now that she intends for Lily to have the sword. Once she's traveled on , as they say."

"Traveled on?"

I heard the skepticism at his voice. "Ye believe there are those who dinnae?"

"According to Templeton, many simply transition into another life," I replied, something I had given a great deal of thought. It did answer some questions for those who claimed to see spectral objects and heard things go bump in the night.

"Transition?"

"Entering another life," I explained, at which Brodie's eyes rolled back. "To take care of things left undone, or to make amends for some transgression. For others I suppose it could simply be their refusal to leave this world."

"Templeton," he commented, with that sound I was most familiar with as he left his chair and rounded the desk.

"Witches, goblins, and spirits in the night as well, I suppose?"

"What do you believe?" I asked, since we had not previously had that conversation.

"I've seen too much of death and not experienced a spirit after, even though I might have wished it." He brushed my cheek with his fingers.

"I believe in what I can see and touch."

"I shall have to haunt you when I return," I replied.

I wondered if I would be able to feel such things as the touch of a hand. I would have to remember to ask my friend.