Chapter 6

Six

FRIDAY

There was someone I wanted very much to meet with, as regarded our case and most certainly not for any other reason—Theodolphus Burke with the Times newspaper.

He had managed to arrive at the print shop quite expeditiously for his story in the newspaper when the call went out after Charlotte Mallory was found murdered. He did seem to have a talent for arriving first on the scene of a crime, thereby putting out the story before the other newspapers.

I did have my suspicions about that, perhaps payment changing hands to the watch captain as Brodie had once suggested. However, I wanted to see if there was anything I might be able to learn from him that he hadn't written about.

"Do ye want me to accompany ye?" Brodie had asked as we both dressed for the day.

"I can handle Mr. Burke. You can be somewhat intimidating."

A dark brow, the one with the scar, angled sharply.

"Intimidating? Ye have never been the least intimidated by meself."

"That is because I know what that look actually means when you look at me that way."

"Usually when ye've done somethin' ye shouldna, that put ye in danger."

"And other things…" I reminded him.

"Ye are shameless, Mikaela Forsythe Brodie."

Yes, well… I did write that off to that encounter on the Isle of Crete a handful of years earlier. As my great-aunt would say, most stirring!

Brodie hoped to speak with the other constable who had arrived at the print shop the night that Charlotte Mallory was murdered. The man lived in the Commons, one of a dozen buildings for working-class tenants.

Constable Erskine was older, with a great deal more experience working the streets. A handful of years before, he had been called out to the Whitechapel murders.

"Do ye have the revolver with ye?" Brodie asked as I set off from the office.

"Surely you don't think I will need it."

"I'm not worrit about ye , lass. I'm more concerned for Burke. I would hate to have to explain to her ladyship that ye have gone off and killed the bugger for his insults."

I promised not to leave a trail of blood. Theodolphus Burke might be condescending even outright insulting, however, he simply was not worth what it would take to put him out of everyone's misery. And there was the fact that he might know something important to our inquiry case.

I arrived at the Times offices early in the morning and before he had taken himself off on his usual rounds searching out his next story. Then, usually back to the newspaper office, I had recently discovered, to write up whatever nasty bit of rumor or salacious gossip he was able to obtain for a column that he also wrote under a pseudonym when there was a shortage of robberies or murder.

No one was spared his vitriol, certainly not myself. He had been quite amused to learn that I was the author of the Emma Fortescue novels. He had called my Emma Fortescue adventures much like Alice's Adventures in Wonderland:

"Lady Mikaela Forsythe's literary efforts, disguised as Emma Fortescue, are amusing, though obviously a product of her privileged imagination. What woman of her breeding and family name would risk her life dueling with swords?"

Indeed.

When I arrived at the Times building, the clerk at the ground-floor desk contacted the second floor, where Burke had a desk.

"If you would wait, please, Lady Forsythe." He indicated a sitting area in the foyer. He was congenial enough and I thought I recognized him, then dismissed it.

I was not good at being put off. However, I was there hoping to find out what Burke might have learned in his poking about, determined to write the full story about Charlotte Mallory's murder. I decided, as my great-aunt once said in a similar situation, to ‘play nice.'

I eventually heard the persistent jangle of the phone, very near an hour later, and the young clerk informed me that Mr. Burke would see me now.

"Lady Forsythe!" I heard him call out as I reached the second floor from the direction of the private office he had been given.

"Or, should I say Mrs. Brodie? There has been that rumor about the city. To what do I owe this dubious pleasure? Isn't there a ladies' tea to be attended somewhere?"

"Oh, it almost slipped my mind, perhaps a new inquiry case, someone's lost Pomeranian?" I inquired.

Odious man. I pushed back the urge to reach for the revolver, and greeted Burke with a smile instead, determined to play nice .

We exchanged the usual pleasantries. He even congratulated me on my latest novel.

"Always entertaining. And you and Mr. Brodie tracking down dangerous criminals."

"While your gossip column seems to be a great success," I complimented him.

The truth was that he had managed to humiliate several members of society, particularly Lady Braithwaite by exposing the affair she was having with a much younger man.

While I hardly thought it was of any great interest, my great-aunt had thought it highly amusing.

" Lady Braithwaite is at least sixty years old and the young man is rumored to be no more than twenty-five. I do hope that she is enjoying herself."

There had been no mention of Lord Braithwaite who was very near eighty.

"I have no idea if he's still alive, " my great-aunt added at the time. " The last time he attended one of my soirees he did have the smell of camphor about him or some other preservative, and some difficulty moving about."

The follow-up to that bit of gossip had been the revelation that Lady Braithwaite had departed for their country estate at the time, with her much-younger ‘companion,' who was reported by said newspaper writer to be her riding instructor.

Riding instructor. Most amusing.

Never mind that winter approached when weather prevented riding about the countryside. That did raise the question of who was instructing whom? And in what?

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Lady Forsythe?" Burke replied now as he returned to his desk and sat down after our greetings.

"And what is this I hear about your recent marriage?"

I decided to simply ignore him on that last one. I had learned in the past that the less said the better when it came to Theodolphus Burke. Yet, I was not beyond dangling a bit of information to gain more information that he might have.

"I read your article regarding the murder of that young woman, Charlotte Mallory," I began. "It is getting so that it is not safe for a woman to be about London at any time of the day. It reminds one of those dreadful Whitechapel murders that have never been solved."

That sharp gaze narrowed.

"Yes, most dreadful. But what is your interest, Lady Forsythe?"

"Mr. Brodie and I have been asked to make inquiries in the matter." I replied. There was no reason to keep secret something that he would learn for himself from his own sources on the street.

"Hmmm. And you wish to know what I know, on behalf of your client."

"It does seem as though we might be able to assist one another," I replied.

"You have information?"

I heard the doubt in his voice.

"It might be beneficial to both of us, and you would, of course, be able to write the article once the murderer is caught."

"What sort of information?"

"It would require your sharing information you might have as well," I reminded him. With no guarantee of course that he would. Except for a bit of bribery.

"And it would be a shame for one of the other dailies to post their article first."

"Are you suggesting a partnership, Lady Forsythe?"

Not bloody likely, I thought. Yet, something that would entice him to share and I would do the same.

"Not precisely," I replied. "But perhaps something to help each of us. I want to find answers for our client, and you want information for your articles for the Times. We might both benefit," I pointed out.

At the same time, I was hoping that printing the information that Brodie and I had been able to learn might entice someone to come forward with something they saw or heard.

"What is it that you believe you have discovered, Lady Forsythe?" The derision in his voice was obvious.

"A question first. Have you been able to learn anything from the man and woman who found the body?"

He shook his head. "They have refused to speak with me. Some sort of bad experience with someone from the newspapers in the past."

Considering what was usually printed, often for purposes of sensationalism with a bare smidgen of fact and subsequent sales, I wasn't surprised. However, that might provide Brodie and I with an opportunity.

"What about anyone else who was on the street at the time?" I then asked.

"That is two questions, Lady Forsythe."

That smile, much like the Cheshire Cat. He was enjoying this part in this exchange.

"But I suppose there is no harm in sharing," he continued. "There was a man going about lighting the street lamps who might have seen something. I haven't been able to locate him as yet."

While many street lights were now electrified along the major thoroughfares in London, gas street lamps were still found in other parts of the city. Was it possible the man might have seen something?

"I have been forthcoming with information," Burke pointed out. "Now it is your turn, Lady Forsythe."

The derision was still there in his voice with a hint of curiosity.

I had given a great deal of thought to what I might tell him, from what little we knew about the murder.

The entire purpose of my visit was an attempt to learn anything that might help us, as I had explained to him. I didn't give a fig about his ambitions. However, I was not willing to share the information Mr. Brimley had discovered.

He was a friend, and I was not willing to reveal him as a source for information in our inquiries. It was impossible to know as yet what that blue woolen fiber meant, if anything. That left one thing that I was willing to share.

"It seems that there was something possibly left behind by the murderer," I caught the sudden interest even as Burke sat back casually in his desk chair.

"What would that be?"

"A flower was found at the scene of the murder." I watched for any indication that he already knew about it. I saw only vague amusement.

"A flower?"

"A red rose," I replied.

He stared at me from across the desk. "That is the information you have?"

"From what I was able to learn she didn't have it with her when she entered the print shop. It was found on her afterward."

"And you believe it could be important."

He obviously didn't think that it was important. I was beginning to question how Theodolphus Burke had reached the place in his career that he had.

"It was placed across her body in a particular manner," I explained. "Almost as if…"

"As if what, Lady Forsythe?" He rose from behind his desk with notepad in hand. "You cannot be certain that she didn't purchase the flower after she left the print shop. Now if that is all, I have a deadline to meet, which you might understand."

The man really was full of himself. I rose from the chair across from him. It was obvious that our meeting was at an end. I paused at the door, then left him with a parting thought.

"It was after dark and there was no flower seller in the area," I informed him what I already knew from my conversation with Mr. Adams at the print shop.

I left him with a parting thought, though certain he would dismiss it.

"It's almost as if the murderer was leaving a message."

With that I closed the door behind me rather forcefully.

Condescending, arrogant man! I thought as I took the stairs instead of the lift back to the ground floor.

"Good day, miss," the clerk called out.

I thanked him, then left the building.

As irritating as Theodolphus Burke was, I had given him information that could be useful. It was not my responsibility if he chose to ignore what I had told him. As for myself, I had learned two things that could be important.

The man and woman who found Charlotte Mallory's body had refused to speak with him—something I could most definitely understand.

Yet, they might be willing to speak with Brodie and me, in order to find the person who had committed the murder. Their names had been on the copy of the police report that Brodie made.

The second piece of information was regarding the man who had perhaps been on the street at the time—the lamplighter, whose route that night included the street in front of the print shop.

I found a driver and returned to the office on the Strand. Brodie had returned as well, and he was not alone.

"The housekeeper gave me your message, Mr. Brodie," the man dressed in casual work clothes seated across from him was saying. "Came as soon as I could find a driver, and thanks to ye for the coin to cover it."

Brodie nodded, looking up as I crossed the office and removed my coat.

"Thank ye for coming as quickly as ye did. This is my associate, Miss Forsythe."

We had previously discussed how I was to be introduced to potential clients or others we worked with.

Lady Forsythe seemed pretentious unless it was a situation where it might be advantageous, at which time it could be used with no hesitation on my part.

Brodie had pointed out that my given name, Mikaela Forsythe, might seem too informal, particularly with those he objected to treating me so familiarly.

As for my married name, Mikaela Forsythe Brodie, that might create issues as well. He had pointed out that while he very much liked the sound of it, there were those he had encountered in the past, of a criminal sort, who would like nothing better than to get back at him through his wife.

While I wasn't concerned about it, he was, that was the reason that he usually introduced me as his associate, Miss Forsythe.

"This is Constable Erskine," Brodie provided. "He was on the call the night of the murder."

Constable Erskine nodded a greeting. "That I was." He turned back to Brodie, effectively dismissing me. I was used to that sort of thing, but that didn't mean that I liked it.

"It is good of you to assist us," I told him.

There was that nod again, with a faint smile this time.

"I don't know what more I can tell you, Mr. Brodie. I see you have a copy of the report." He gestured across the desk to the copy Brodie had made.

"I had my partner give the information to the night officer when we got back from the Yard."

"I thought there might be something that wasn't in the report," Brodie suggested. "Something that might have been said or noticed but didn't make it on paper. Would ye take a look?" He turned the copy of the report about and slid it across to Constable Erskine.

He pulled a pair of spectacles from his jacket pocket and put them on, then began reading the copy of the report, occasionally reading aloud, then continuing on.

"Pretty thing, she was," he said with a frown as he stared down at the copy of the report. "And holding that flower."

I exchanged a look with Brodie but said nothing.

Constable Erskine was thoughtful. "When I first saw her lyin' there with that flower across her, it reminded me…"

"What did it remind you of?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Somethin' a long time ago perhaps, and it was just for a moment. An impression, you understand, that flower just under her hand. Almost as if…"

"Wot do ye remember, Mr. Erskine?" Brodie prompted him.

He shook his head. "After seein' this sort of thing over twenty-five years… You know how it is Mr. Brodie; you don't want to see any more of it. Just doing my job, responding to the calls when they come in, waiting for the day when I can retire.

"What you did, leaving after only a few years," he continued. "I should have done the same, but we had three young ones at home then. They're all gone now, and I've only eighteen months left. Then, I'm out on my pension."

"Is there anything else you remember from that night," Brodie replied.

"Were the street lamps lit nearby?" I asked.

He nodded. "They'd been lit some time before. It was the reason we had no trouble seeing that she was already dead, and that wound as well." He hesitated.

"There were a handful who gathered about in that way that a crime draws attention, and then the man from the newspaper."

"Mr. Burke from the Times," Brodie provided the name.

He nodded. "That's the one, got there before we arrived. Thought it was odd at the time. But you know how it is, guv'ner."

And something that Burke hadn't bothered to mention. I wasn't surprised.

From working with Brodie, I was aware that a handful of the more successful writers for the newspapers had their ‘sources' on the street. Those who often knew of a crime before the police or anyone else, and then sold the information to the newspapers.

It was rumored that the one who had committed the crime might report it to a well-known newspaper reporter, and make a fee from it.

Did that also include murder?

I had no doubt that Burke had his own sources scrabbling about the streets of London, those of a low sort. Perhaps those same criminals who took him information.

It did explain how he was able to be the first one to write about the latest crimes for the Times.

Might that include the murder of Charlotte Mallory?