Chapter 2 #2
I had given the hound his name. He reminded me of the hunting dogs my father kept when I was a child, that included one in particular I was quite fond of, also named Rupert.
In spite of his habit of scrounging the streets for whatever dead creature might be found and bringing it back to the alcove, he had proven himself to be a stalwart friend and fierce protector on more than one occasion.
When Brodie emerged once more from the adjacent room, he was dressed in common worker’s clothes—black woven-cotton trousers, a black jumper, and scuffed boots, instead of the fine worsted coat, shirt, and tie that he had worn earlier.
He might have been any drayman or cabman on the street, with overlong hair in need of a trim, full beard, and a billed cap.
“I will leave word for Mr. Dooley,” he told me as he retrieved his jacket from the coat stand. “If he should return here, I want very much to see the police report that was made about the matter.”
I was tempted to ask when he might return but did not.
He then went to his desk, opened the top drawer and retrieved the revolver he always carried when he went out on the street while on a case—old habits, he once explained.
“Leave a message with Mr. Cavendish if ye need to get word to me.”
I nodded.
“And dinna go about alone after nightfall.”
“I still would like to help,” I said once more.
“Aye, but I need you here, and there is the Ambersley inquiry.”
“You will be careful?” I added. “I would hate for something to happen to you and leave me with all of this.”
He reached out and touched my cheek.
“Careful as church mice.”
And then he was out the door, down the stairs, with a word to Mr. Cavendish, before disappearing among the crowd of carts and coaches on the street.
We had taken separate cases in the past. Still, I preferred when we worked together. I had learned a great deal from him. And admittedly he had learned a few things as well. Still…
As I was about to close the door, the hound appeared and slipped through the opening.
“Gave you the word, did he?” I commented.
The hound looked up at me with those large dark eyes, grinned, and then went to the coal stove and lay down on the rug before it.
“I thought so.”
My appointment with Lady Ambersley to begin my interviews with servants was slated for later in the afternoon.
That would give me the opportunity to question servants as well as inspect the residence at St. John’s Wood the way I had learned from Brodie.
I then went to the chalkboard and spent the next hour making my usual notes regarding the Ambersley inquiry, as well as the questions I wanted to ask.
When the clock struck one, I put my notebook in my travel bag, then donned my long coat.
“Come along then,” I told Rupert. “You will stay here. I don’t believe Bitsy would appreciate your handsome self.”
At the sidewalk below the office, I asked Mr. Cavendish to wave down a coach.
“When might you return, miss?” he inquired, squinting up at me through the misty rain from under the bill of his cap.
It was as I thought. He rarely inquired about such things. It did seem as though Brodie had put out the word to him regarding my travels about London in his absence.
Once again, I was not surprised. I informed Mr. Cavendish that I would return to Mayfair after meeting with our client. It was quite near St. John’s Wood.
“That would be before dark,” he said as a reminder.
As I was saying…
brODIE
“What have the lads at the MET done about it?” Mr. Conner inquired as he sat across from Brodie in his small flat in Holborn.
“They are makin’ their usual inquiries,” Brodie replied. “It was late at night as he finished his rounds, and no one was around that late of the hour in the Circus.”
Conner made a crude sound. “Most of Abberline’s people wouldn’t know how to find themselves if they had a mirror. No criticism of Mr. Dooley, but he’s just one man.
“And you know as well as meself that Abberline will fuss about it for a while and then it will be put aside for other matters as he has in the past. Ones that will look best on his record now that he’s been reinstated.
Brodie wasn’t surprised that Conner was aware of that.
“You know as well that there are few beside the lot of us who served with Constable Martin who care if the murderer is found—risks of the work and not a priority.”
Brodie nodded. “I though ye would want to know.”
Conner was thoughtful. “What of his widow? Was there any mention to her of someone he came across before that night? Some difficulty on the street?”
“Nothing that he told her.”
Conner slammed down the empty glass that had held a good portion of whisky earlier.
“Now, tell me lad, what is it you plan to do?”
“I will start with his usual route, speak with workers that were in the area late in the day who might have seen someone lurking about, or heard something about it on the street.”
“That is a lot for one man. It takes time, and you know the more time that passes, the less chance we have finding the bastard.”
“Aye,” Brodie replied.
“Two can cover the area in half the time.”
“You haven’t walked the street in over ten years,” Brodie pointed out, instead of reminding Conner of his age and the remnants of old injuries that still plagued him from his own time in uniform.
“You forget, lad. I’m a Scot the same as yerself, and as long as there’s a bit of the drink at the end of the day, I can still walk miles around you. Where do we begin?”
Brodie had known what his response would be, and the truth was that, having told him, he would be hard-pressed to prevent Conner from taking to the streets.
“We start at Regent Street. We’ll split the route from here.”
Conner poured another dram for them both.
“To warm the blood before we set off, and a toast to find the bloody bastard that murdered a good man.”