Chapter 8
Eight
The driver of the coal cart let him off at the edge of Piccadilly—it was beyond his usual route, and he would go no farther. The man wanted to get on with his deliveries.
Brodie walked the rest of the way, cutting down cross-streets, past the usual street vendors and the Public House, even though he hadn’t eaten since the day before.
There had been no time after he met with Mr. Dooley at Chief Inspector Dawes’s residence.
There was exhaustion along with hunger from not having eaten since the day before, but he was used to that from another life…
Street vendors were not precisely in abundance in the places he had been. But it was not the hunger that drove him down an alley, across another street, until he emerged at the Strand, then made his way toward the office.
If Mr. Cavendish had followed his instructions, there might be a response from the message he’d had him send. And that was what he looked for now.
Head down, his collar turned up against the rain and cold, he dodged the usual foot traffic on the sidewalk until the roofline of the office came into view. He crossed the thoroughfare with an eye to the traffic, then walked the short distance to the office building.
Mr. Cavendish gave him a nod as he reached the sidewalk at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the office.
The windows on the second floor were dark, which told him that Mikaela was not there. That would have brought questions about the progress he’d made. Not to mention the message he hoped to find in answer to the request he’d had Mr. Cavendish send round to the Home Office.
He could have sworn the man ducked his head as he reached inside his coat, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to him.
“The response you were waitin’ for.”
Brodie took the envelope, noticed the embossed address of the Home Office, and retrieved the note inside.
“When did this arrive?” he asked Mr. Cavendish.
There was an uneasy glance again.
“A bit more than an hour ago.”
Brodie nodded. “And Lady Forsythe?”
“She was here earlier and worked up at the office for a time. It seems she finished with the inquiries she was making.”
If Mr. Cavendish had legs, Brodie was certain he would have shuffled his feet. The man was definitely put off by something.
He turned the envelope over and noticed the two names at the front.
“Was she here when this arrived?”
Another hesitant nod. “She took it from the courier, went up to the office, then took herself off with the hound.”
After she had undoubtedly read it.
“Aye,” Brodie replied as he tucked the note into his coat pocket, then climbed the stairs to the office.
MIKAELA
Upon arriving at the Times offices, I looked down at Rupert at the sidewalk. He sat, waiting expectantly.
He could be most congenial, particularly where food was involved. However, there were other instances where he had shown a rather aggressive nature. Particularly where Theodolphus Burke was concerned. He did seem to have a dislike of the man.
“Behave yourself,” I told him as we entered the lobby of the building.
“Good day,” the young man at the desk greeted me with a faintly bemused glance down at the hound.
We had met previously, and I had discovered that he was not only an aspiring writer for the newspaper who had been relegated to the front desk for ‘experience,’ as he mentioned at the time, but we shared a similar opinion of Mr. Burke. He also had a particular liking for the hound.
“Mr. Burke is in his office this afternoon. Should I announce your arrival, or is it to be a surprise?” he commented somewhat cheekily, as Burke had a tendency to leave the building by another means if the situation was not to his liking.
“No need,” I replied. “We do know our way.”
“Have a pleasant visit,” he responded with amusement.
With that, I proceeded to the lift with Rupert.
As we had both been to the newsroom previously, there was only a brief nod of acknowledgement when we arrived at the floor where the staff reporters had their desks lined up in an open space.
Two reporters pecked away at typing machines while others wrote information down in notebooks. One, a young staff writer by the name of Edward Ealing, greeted me from the counter as an older gentleman grabbed his coat from a coat rack in quite a rush, cap askew on his head, notebook in hand.
“Where are you off to, Mr. Casey?” he inquired.
“I’m meeting with Mr. Holmes,” he replied somewhat crankily. “He’s finally agreed to discuss his latest case.”
I nodded as he passed by with a tip of his cap. I did wish him luck with that. It was widely known that Mr. Holmes could be somewhat erratic in his habits, particularly where newspaper people were concerned.
I had met Mr. Holmes once at a reception upon the release of one of my Emma books.
He had entered the shop unrecognizable in a disguise and merely wandered about until most of the people had left. He then approached the table as I was preparing to leave as well.
I do not claim that he actually complimented me on the thinly disguised plot of my book that closely mirrored the first case Brodie and I had pursued. Instead, he stood back, watching me with just one word. “Fascinating.”
There followed a brief discussion about what that might mean.
“It is fascinating that a woman would write such a grisly tale,” he had explained. “But then, I suppose one may write anything they might imagine. It is, after all, fiction.”
Yes, well. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he was condescending. However, I was tempted to explain the specific case I had written about more thoroughly. Although fictionalized to protect certain persons.
Instead, I simply replied, “The bullet wound has healed quite nicely, although there is a rather nasty scar.”
Mr. Holmes burst out laughing. “You remind me of someone I know—beautiful, charming, and a bit dangerous.”
We had discussed several points in my book, which he eventually conceded was a ‘rather nice little tome.’
And then, a thought in parting. “Do keep up the good work, Lady Forsythe. There are far too many evil persons in the world. And poor writers.”
It was a most unusual encounter. However, I considered it a compliment that Mr. Holmes had taken the time to engage in conversation.
I noticed in a quick glance that Mr. Burke was not among those in the newsroom.
He had been provided a private office once more after a fall from grace, as it were. I turned at the hallway that led to that office.
His door was closed. I knocked lightly, did not wait for a response as he would surely have told me to go away, then opened the door and stepped inside.
“I left instructions that I was not to be disturbed if I am to meet this deadline,” he announced without looking up.
“Then I shall only take a few minutes of your time,” I replied.
His head came up. “I would say that it is a pleasure, Lady Forsythe. However…”
He abruptly pushed back from the desk and seized his umbrella as if it was a weapon.
“And what the devil is that animal doing here!?”
“As you well know, he is quite docile unless provoked,” I replied. “And he has a particular dislike of umbrellas.”
He slowly lowered the weaponized umbrella. Rupert immediately sat down but kept a watchful eye on him.
“I have a deadline to meet…” Burke snapped as he returned to his chair.
“As I explained, I shall only take a few minutes of your time. It is in the matter of an article you wrote for the morning edition of the Times. The one about the murder of Chief Inspector Dawes as well as the murder of Constable Joseph Martin while he was on patrol in Piccadilly two nights previous.”
I knew from past experience that Mr. Burke often knew a great deal more about a story than he initially revealed. He had been known to gradually reveal information in subsequent, often sensational, articles to keep readers purchasing additional editions of the newspaper to read his crime reporting.
He slowly looked up. “What do you want? Tell me, so that you will then leave.”
I retrieved the morning edition from my bag and laid it on his desk.
“A most interesting article about the murder of Constable Martin and now the suspicious death of the retired Chief Inspector,” I commented.
“Considering your talent as a reporter,” I continued, “you undoubtedly have additional information that you have learned regarding the two situations.”
“Situations?” he repeated. “You always put everything so very proper that no one could possibly detect the threat behind it.”
“I have no idea what you are speaking of,” I replied.
“The fact that your great-aunt is Lady Antonia Montgomery and an acquaintance of long-standing and some influence with Mr. Walter, who is now owner of the Times.”
There was that, of course. Something I had learned after my first inquiry case. Her opinion of Theodolphus Burke was much the same as my own.
“Pompous, arrogant little man with hardly a teaspoon of talent,” she had commented in that particular conversation. “All he is capable of writing about are sensational crimes like those poor women murdered in the East End. And those have yet to be solved.”
Aunt Antonia was an avid patron of the Times. Still there was Burke’s point about her acquaintance with Mr. Walter.
“There is little known at this time about the murders,” he informed me. “You, above all, should know that you cannot divulge everything you know.”
His tone brought a low growl from Rupert.
“I do not know which is the more threatening, Lady Forsythe. That scroungy beast or yourself.”
I took that as a compliment. However, I wasn’t so certain about Rupert. His hackles were still raised on his back.
“How is it that you learned so quickly about what had happened to the chief inspector?”
“I have my sources, just as you and Mr. Brodie.”
I gave him a long look. “Someone within the MET no doubt.”
“When the call came in from the constable on duty nearby, a ‘friend’ contacted me. I will not share his name, even under risk of peril.”
This was said with a look in Rupert’s direction. It was too tempting.