Chapter 8 #2
“Was there a particular reason you were contacted?” I replied.
He made a sound, very much like a groan.
“I had met recently with the chief inspector about a project he was pursuing and had met with him at the old Scotland Yard, months past.”
“Might I ask, what sort of project?”
“You might ask.”
I waited.
“He wanted information about an old case that I had written about. He asked to see the newspaper archive about the case, and we had struck up an acquaintance.”
I couldn’t imagine that, yet to each their own.
“What was the case?”
“It was a case that I covered regarding one of your own, Sir Edward Blackwood, who was convicted of murdering a fellow gentleman, Sir Andrew Sark, in a duel. It caused quite a sensation at the time.”
I could imagine, since dueling had been outlawed years before.
I knew of it in that way that gossip made its way around, even across the channel. But I didn’t know the details of it, as I had been at school in Paris at the time. I did remember Aunt Antonia writing about it in one of her letters.
“I asked him if he was writing a book,” Burke continued. “He denied it with an excuse that it was for other reasons.”
“Were you able to provide the information he wanted?” I inquired.
“The archive at the Gazette was somewhat lacking, there was only the mention of it and the trial that followed. The writers at the Gazette were not of a high quality. It was the reason I left just prior for the Times.”
Of course, I thought.
“When did you last meet with your source?” I then inquired.
“Tuesday, the week past.”
“Did he share anything with you about being threatened by anyone?”
“That is all I will tell you, Lady Forsythe. Out of respect for the poor man.”
I retrieved the newspaper and tucked it into my bag.
It would be helpful to make my own inquiries when it came to the Times archive. I was already aware that Burke would not share information.
“Will you now please leave?” he asked. “I have a deadline.”
Undoubtedly for one of the lurid, sensational stories that he was known for.
“You have been most helpful,”
“And take the filthy animal with you!” he called after.
The ‘filthy animal’ that was somewhat cleaner than usual waited until I left the office, then bounded after me.
It was afternoon when I returned to the office, the usual wintry darkness settling in over the Strand with streetlights gleaming through the gloom of the fog that had set in, the bloody haar, as a Scot I knew quite well called it. Lights shone in the second story windows of the office as well.
The hound leapt down as the cab rolled to a stop.
“When did Mr. Brodie return?” I inquired as I stepped down.
“A short while ago,” Mr. Cavendish informed me. “I gave him the envelope. He’s been up there since, but said he would need a driver before end of day.”
It seemed that he intended to visit the Yard yet that afternoon. I gathered my skirt in hand and ran up the stairs.
There were times when the stairs were far more expedient and held less danger than the lift stalling between the ground and second floors, although I wouldn’t have admitted that to Brodie.
He preferred the stairs and insisted upon using them, even in nasty weather, stating more than once that he had no use for a box that might trap him. I had pointed out that there was a roof hatch for such situations.
“Which would not be necessary if lifts worked the way they’re supposed to,” he had grumbled in response.
He could be quite stubborn.
He was in the room adjacent to the outer office that served as a private bedroom when we stayed over.
I heard the distinct sound of the wardrobe door being closed rather sharply, then Brodie emerged wearing dress wool trousers, a white shirt that he tucked into the waist of the trousers, and a vest, obviously thrown on somewhat hastily as his shirt gaped open, unbuttoned.
A stirring sight to be certain.
He looked up, a frown showing through the obvious fatigue of the past few days, from wherever his inquiries regarding Constable Martin’s murder had taken him.
He fumbled with his tie, a frequent battle that he usually conceded. I laid my travel bag on my desk and crossed the office to where he struggled.
I brushed his hands aside and noticed that the lines at the corners of his eyes and about his mouth slowly eased as I tied the strands of silk.
“I knew there was some reason that I keep ye about,” he commented, the smell of soap mingling with that of pipe tobacco, and possibly some other fragrance that was vaguely familiar.
Such endearing sentiments.
“Mr. Cavendish mentioned that ye finished yer inquiries regarding Lady Ambersley’s missing necklace.”
“With some assistance from Aunt Antonia and Bitsy.”
“And that would be?”
“My aunt is acquainted with Lady Ambersley. It seems that she has a habit of losing her necklace. She recalled a similar incident. And then there is Bitsy.”
Dark brows arched. “I’m almost afraid to ask. Is it anythin’ like Miss Templeton’s lizard?”
He was referring to Ziggy, my good friend’s iguana, a gift from a ‘friend’ on one of her tours.
“Bitsy is a purse pet, a very small dog. Lady Ambersley takes her everywhere.
“It seems that Bitsy has made off with things in the past and hidden them about the manor. The night the necklace disappeared, Lord and Lady Ambersley hosted a supper party.” I then explained how the necklace became displaced in Kitty Ambersley’s soup, that retrieved and wrapped in a linen napkin, then set aside.
“It seems that Bitsy made off with it when no one was aware and added it to her collection of treasures under Lord and Lady Ambersley’s bed. A horde that included a pair of his silk underdrawers, a dead bird from the gardens, and the necklace.”
Those dark eyes narrowed.
“Lord Ambersley’s underdrawers?”
“Silk and quite large,” I explained as I finished tying his tie and laid my hands against the front of his shirt. I blocked out the image of Lord Ambersley and his overlarge drawers.
“I am most appreciative of yourself,” I complimented him.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and now I may be of assistance with your inquiries,” I added.
“I appreciate that,” he told me. “I truly do, but I’ve already had to go into places and speak with a good many disreputable persons I would not want ye to be around.”
“Someone who wears rather cheap cologne?” I commented regarding that ‘other’ fragrance that lingered about him.
It was something I had encountered a few years earlier on a particular lady in a chartreuse gown who had been escaping his office rather early on the morning when I first sought his investigative services in the matter of the disappearance of my sister.
“Wot are ye blatherin’ about, woman?”
“I made the acquaintance of the woman when I first inquired about your services,” I suggested.
I caught the confusion in his expression, which I suspected was probably genuine. He shook his head and laughed.
“Are ye jealous, lass?”
“As someone we both know once told me…” And to quote the particular ‘someone’ standing before me, “I do not share what is mine.”
“That would be Maudie,” he replied. “She is an old friend, and she knew Constable Martin as well. He relied on her for information from time to time. I thought she might know something that could be useful.”
“So you say,” I teased.
He pulled me against him. “And where might yer travels have taken ye this afternoon, Mrs. Brodie? Now that Lady Ambersley’s necklace has been found.”
“I went to the Times this afternoon and spoke with Mr. Burke regarding an article he wrote for the crime sheet in this morning’s edition. It seems he has a friend within the MET who contacted him after the call came in about the chief inspector’s death.”
“Aye? What did he share with ye?”
“It could be important to our inquiries into the murder of the chief inspector and perhaps Constable Martin.”
That dark gaze narrowed as I gathered my bag and went to the door.
“I’ll explain what I was able to learn on the ride to Scotland Yard.”