Chapter 1
One
Angus Brodie sat across from Inspector Dooley, an elbow propped on the arm of the desk chair as he frowned at the news his friend brought.
“I thought you should know straight away.”
The accent from the man’s birth in Ireland was there. It wrapped around the words, with the gravity of the matter. The same as the first day they had worked together when Brodie was just a new recruit fresh from training. And then later as inspector with the Metropolitan.
‘Blue Devils’ the recruits were called then and included a new identity from the one he’d carried from Edinburgh.
Along with skills acquired on the streets that offered experience that couldna’ be found otherwise, and the cold determination burnin’ in his belly to make something of himself before the streets decided otherwise.
Then, he’d walked the streets with Joseph Martin, older by ten years and with a good amount of experience, who gradually chipped away at the anger and resentment that Brodie had wrapped around himself like a protective shield.
Much like an older brother, Martin taught and protected him, at times from himself, and then stood with pride and watched years later when Brodie became inspector of police.
“I belong on the streets,” Joe had told him then. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself in a suit of regular clothes, investigating crimes, questioning witnesses. But you have the head for it.
“You see things in people. You know a lie when you hear it, and you have friends in places where most wouldn’t go.
“I’m proud of you, Brodie, although I wouldn’t have bet good money that you would survive those first months you walked with me, charging into places and situations as if the devil was on your tail.”
“When did it happen?” Brodie asked now, as he pushed that memory back.
“His shift last night,” Mr. Dooley replied.
Another good man, who’d understood when Brodie had to walk away from the person who threatened to take everything away that he’d achieved and start over again with private inquiries.
“Witnesses?”
Dooley shook his head. “None that time of the night. His partner, Constable Tabor, found him when he failed to meet at the end of their shift and he backtracked to Regent Street.”
Brodie frowned. It was not the first time that a constable had been attacked and killed in the line of duty, yet it hadn’t happened in some time as far as he knew. Still, a constable by himself? It was the reason two usually covered their area.
“There might be something to be learned on the street,” he commented, his thoughts already going to those who worked the street in a different manner, the underground information system controlled by organized gangs that was well known among those who served the MET.
Still, late in the night, and at Piccadilly with most people well gone for the evenin’? Not a time of the night when targets for robbery were plentiful.
“Has there been a report from any of the shop owners and businesses in the area about a burglary?”
Mr. Dooley shook his head. “Nothing that has been reported.”
“Wot of the attack?”
“A long-blade was used, a single deep wound according to the police surgeon. It was over very quick. There didn’t seem to be any sign of a struggle beforehand.”
Brodie’s dark gaze narrowed. No struggle. That was not like the man he knew.
He thought of possible motive. “Was anything taken?”
“He still had his watch on him along with a few coins.”
No struggle and not for robbery.
“That could be useful.”
He thought then of Joe’s wife and the warm suppers she had insisted he share with them instead of returning each night to a cold flat.
“What of his wife?”
“She knows, but I thought considerin’…” his voice trailed off. There was no need to explain.
Brodie nodded. “I will call on her. Wot of the service?”
There would be one as soon as the police surgeon released the body.
Joseph Martin had served nearly twenty-five years with the Metropolitan Police, a tenure that had included several commendations, as well as being highly respected by all those who worked with him. There would undoubtedly be an honor guard out of respect, though it was not a common practice.
“That will be determined later. I will let you know when we have word on that.”
“Mr. Conner should be made aware as well,” Brodie added. “I will speak with him, although he may already know of it from some of other lads.”
“Aye, they served some time together.”
“Who is on the case?” Brodie inquired.
There was a brotherhood among those who served the MET, particularly those who walked the streets. When something like this happened, they would want answers, and the person caught who was responsible.
“It’s not been assigned yet.” Dooley’s gaze sharpened. “I came to tell you as soon as word came down this morning because of the time you spent with him on the street.
“No doubt Abberline will see to the matter.”
Abberline. Formally reprimanded with time away and now returned as Chief Inspector. He saw the look Dooley gave him.
“It’s best to let others handle this for reasons you know well enough.”
Brodie made no response. There were good people with the MET, Mr. Dooley was one of them. But as he knew all too well, they were short of staff, and their hands were often tied by those they answered to.
A sound came from the landing outside the office. Dooley stood to leave.
“As I said, it’s best to let others handle this. I’ll send word when the day for the service is announced,” he added as the door opened and Mikaela Forsythe entered the office.
Mr. Dooley tipped the brim of his hat in greeting. Then, with a look at Brodie, left.
MIKAELA
“Mr. Dooley seemed most serious. Is there some difficulty?” I commented as he left with a serious expression and a brief nod. Very much out of character for the man.
“A matter he wanted me to know about,” Brodie replied. “A man I worked with when I was with the MET was attacked and killed last night.”
To anyone else, the way he said it would have seemed unemotional, matter-of-fact, a bit of news, nothing more. It was much like listening to someone giving a report.
Yet, I sensed something else, in that way I had learned. There was most definitely something more there.
Brodie was not one to allow his emotions to show. A habit learned through early loss on the streets of Edinburgh, before he came to London, I could only assume.
However, in the time we had worked together, I had learned to sense things in a mannerism, the way a mask—his police inspector demeanor from his years with the MET—slipped into place. It was there now.
I watched as he neatly gathered several papers together, then tucked them into a folder, his mouth a straight line.
He rose from behind the desk, then went to the file cabinet and put the folder away. And it was there, that hint of his conversation with Mr. Dooley in the less-than-subtle slam of the cabinet drawer.
“You knew the man well?” I inquired.
“It’s difficult not to know someone when ye walk the streets with ’em for more than four years,” he bit off.
I sensed the undercurrent of pain and saw the anger in the dark brows that drew together over his dark gaze.
There had been few in his life whom he’d respected or trusted. His friend Munro was one who came from Edinburgh with him all those years before. And oddly enough it also included my great-aunt, Lady Antonia Montgomery. That was a most interesting situation. And then there was myself.
We had learned to trust one another through the various cases we had pursued. And then there was the respect.
In spite of my resolve to remain an unmarried woman, there had been an undeniable attraction. We might have carried on as some did, but he would not have it and had proposed marriage, taking me by surprise.
He was undeniably a handsome man, tall, with dark hair and beard, dark eyes, and the look of someone who could be dangerous if he chose. And there was that other thing that had come highly recommended, from my great-aunt of all persons.
“Constable Martin?” I asked, guessing the victim must be the man he had spoken of often. Someone who, as Brodie explained, had saved him from himself, curbing his recklessness, a habit of rushing into a situation that he had learned on the streets.
“Last night, near the Circus.”
I was aware how much he respected Constable Martin, as well as trusted him, and sensed the deep loss.
“There will be a service,” he added. “Mr. Dooley will let me know when that will be.”
“He was married,” I knew that as well from conversations about those early days with the MET.
He looked at me for the first time, and I saw the pain there.
From what he had told me, Constable Martin and his wife never had children. I didn’t know about other family, but I sensed that he might have been very close with both of them.
“I will call on his wife when it’s appropriate.”
I touched his shoulder and could feel the tension beneath the fabric of his shirt.
“I should think that she might want to hear from you now.”
The mask slipped. I saw his answer in the way the anger left that dark gaze.
“I could send round a message.”
“Or you might simply call on her.”
His mouth worked with what might have been an excuse to put it off until later, then thinned as if it was a physical pain.
I did wonder how many times he had called on other widows in his time with the Metropolitan, forced to maintain a certain demeanor. But now for a friend? I laid my hand at his arm.
We had both experienced painful losses. It was never easy, but this seemed to be especially difficult.
“Aye,” he eventually replied.
“I will go with you.”
I saw his answer in that dark gaze as he laid his hand over mine.
He had Mr. Cavendish wave down a cab and we departed for Braxton Place near Covent Garden where Constable Martin and his wife lived.
The block of flats at Braxton Place was like many throughout London’s working-class areas, with grey stone facades at three-story buildings, the landlord’s flat on the ground floor, and a dozen or more flats on the floors above.
Yet contrary to many residential flats, the building at Number 8 Braxton Place was neat and well maintained, with concrete steps that led from the sidewalk.
Brodie assisted me down from the cab.
The Martins had lived there for several years, and he knew it well.
“Number 4B at the second floor,” he said as we entered the foyer of the building.
The entrance was neat and well-kept, with letter boxes on the wall to the left of the entrance, each with a flat number on the outside.
He went to the door beside those letter boxes and knocked. A short man with grey hair answered the door. Brodie informed him that we were there to see Mrs. Martin. He nodded.
“Sad news this mornin’, Mr. Brodie. The police were round first thing. Constable Martin was a good man. She’s been up there since. Didn’t go to work as usual. Understandable.”
It was obvious the landlord remembered him.
“A man just doing his job and then killed for it. Do the police know who did it?” he asked.
“Not as yet, and I thank ye for yer time, sir,” Brodie replied. He turned then and wrapped a hand around my arm.
We easily found flat 4B on the second floor and Brodie knocked.
It was several moments before Mrs. Martin appeared and I thought she might have decided that she didn’t want to see anyone. Then the door slowly opened.
Maddy Martin was a small woman with a round face, sad blue eyes, and a smile that trembled at the sight of Brodie.
The tears came then as she opened the door further. She reached for the edge of her apron.
“Oh, Angus.”
We sat in the small sitting room beside the kitchen.
There, at a narrow side table was a sepia-toned photograph of Constable Martin in uniform when he received one of his commendations.
There was a second photograph beside it of a half-dozen uniformed constables, standing shoulder to shoulder, that included Brodie.
We had met after he left the MET and established his inquiry business. I had never seen him in a uniform.
He was quite a bit younger then, handsome to be certain, and with an almost defiant look in those dark eyes.
He had changed, of course, through the years since. Where there had been defiance, there was at times now a certain coldness with faint lines at the corners of his eyes.
Perhaps from things experienced, I thought. Yet in a way that only emphasized the impression that here was a man who knew far more than he let on, and one that others might not want to cross.
“I knew that you had married,” Maddy said, surprising me with a sad smile. “He spoke of it and said that it was a good thing, that a man needed someone in that way. A titled lady, and pretty too. I hear you assist in his inquiry cases.”
“When he allows it,” I explained.
“Oh, it’s the Scot in him,” she replied with a faint smile over at Brodie. “Stubborn.”
“Oh, yes,” I replied.
“Do ye have wot ye need here?” Brodie asked then.
“I don’t need anything, except…” Maddy replied. Her voice caught.
I knew what she would have said, that she needed her husband.
“I will bring round food that ye’ll need,” Brodie said. “Wot of the rents?”
She shook her head. “We had money saved for after he retired. It will carry me a while, and everyone here has been more than kind and brought food, as you can see.” She was quiet then.
“I’ve always known the work could be dangerous, but I want to know what happened. I want the person responsible found. Do you hear what I say, Angus Brodie?”
Steel wrapped in silk. I thought of that saying. I was hearing it now, sadness and determination.
“I know the men will do their best,” she said. “But I know from him, there are places they cannot go and things that simply get swept under the rug. He spoke of it, and you know as well.” She took a breath, calm, measured when she spoke again.
“I know your services must be very expensive. But you can make inquiries in those places. I will work the rest of my life to pay your fee if you will find the person who did this.”
I knew what his answer would be before he spoke. He would take the case and make inquiries. And there would be no fee.
“I promise ye. I will find the one responsible.”