Chapter 11
Eleven
HAMMERSMITH, LONDON
MIKAELA
I was not surprised to see a plain-clothed man at the entrance to the residence of Chief Inspector Dawes.
In working with Brodie on other inquiry cases that eventually included the Metropolitan Police, I’d learned it was not unusual to find an inspector stationed at the scene of a crime. Particularly if the crime involved someone of some stature.
In this case, it was the murder of one of their own, so to speak, even though the chief inspector had been retired for several years.
The inspector nodded as I stepped down from the coach and approached the front entrance. I did not recognize him.
He held up a hand. “Sorry, miss. The residence is restricted due to an incident. Do you have business here?”
I had prepared for this without Brodie accompanying me. I retrieved one of our calling cards from my bag and handed it to him.
“Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe, Private Inquiries?” he read the front of the card.
I nodded. “We have been given authority in the matter by the Home Secretary. Mr. Brodie is to meet me here. I do hope you won’t keep me waiting in the rain.”
A bit of a stretch of the truth, as Brodie was not aware that I had decided to come there.
“The Home Secretary, you say?”
“Due to the victim’s long service with the MET, we are assisting in the investigation.”
Admittedly, a somewhat thinly disguised excuse, as we had not officially been requested to participate. Still…
“Very well. I’ll not keep you waiting in this beastly weather. You may go inside, but don’t disturb anything within the premises. There’s no one about, the housekeeper has made other arrangements.”
I thanked him. “I am here to observe and make notes of the scene.” I had come prepared for that part of it and held my notebook aloft.
“Tedious work at times,” I added. “However, quite necessary even though I am certain your people have been quite thorough.”
He nodded from under his brimmed hat, then opened the door for me.
The foyer of the residence contained a coat rack with umbrella stand, a long coat hanging from the rack, where the chief inspector or perhaps his housekeeper had placed it after he returned from some outing. Nothing unusual in that.
I inspected the door. There were no scrape marks or other indication that the murderer had forced his way in from that direction.
Was the murderer known to the chief inspector and he had let him in? Or had he entered the residence by some other means?
According to Mr. Dooley, the housekeeper heard no sounds to indicate what she found in the front parlor afterward.
I went in search of some other means the murderer might have gained entrance.
It was a modest residence on a street with other similar residences of people of modest means, yet neatly kept, no doubt due to the efforts of the housekeeper who found the chief inspector’s body.
I turned on the electric, then slowly walked through the small dining area attached to the kitchen, a room that would have been for the housekeeper, and a second access just beyond at the back of the residence.
Once again, there was no sign that someone had forced their way inside, along with the fact that the housekeeper had seen no one.
I returned to the foyer and the small hall that led to the stairs to the second floor, as well as the front parlor where the body was found.
According to Mr. Dooley, it didn’t appear that anything had been taken. However, a more thorough search with the aid of the housekeeper was to be made.
If nothing was taken, then that would eliminate robbery as the motive for the murder.
Unless, of course, the chief inspector had come upon the murderer unexpectedly before he could take anything.
I was careful not to touch anything as I entered the modestly furnished room and once again turned on the electric in order to make my own observations.
It was simply furnished with a rug over the wood floor, an overstuffed chair that sat before the hearth with a small table beside, and a humidor and pipe in a tray.
My attention was immediately drawn to the floor before the hearth and the dark stain on the carpet, where the chief inspector’s body had been found.
The rug was scuffed up at the edge as if the toe of a boot might have caught it. The murderer perhaps, or his victim as he struggled while he was attacked?
I crossed to the narrow windows adjacent to the hearth. There was a faint scrape in the wood of the window casement.
Was it possible that was the means the murderer had made his way inside, and then attacked the chief inspector?
I glanced back at the entrance to the parlor and the small dining room and kitchen beyond. It was quite possible the housekeeper wouldn’t have heard the window being opened.
A copy of the police report might tell us more.
I continued my search as I approached the desk that sat across from the hearth.
According to Burke at the Times, the chief inspector had contacted him for information regarding an old case that Burke had written about several years before.
“Perhaps writing a book about his time with the MET,” Burke had suggested, amused by the thought.
I went to the desk, disappointed that I had not discovered anything out of the ordinary that might provide a clue to the reason Chief Inspector Dawes was so brutally murdered.
There were the usual things I would expect to find, familiar from my own writing endeavors.
Pen, writing paper, envelopes, perhaps for correspondence, and a folder that clearly held other papers.
Not unusual either for a man who had worked for over twenty years as inspector for the MET, then several more as Chief Inspector.
According to Brodie and Mr. Dooley, the man was highly respected and undoubtedly would have received many accolades and commendations, and perhaps certificates of recognition.
Was that what was inside that folder? Or was the chief inspector conducting an investigation of his own with those inquiries he’d made of Burke?
Brodie has often said that, for a woman, I have an unusual curiosity for things that have led to some interesting, even dangerous situations.
My great-aunt prefers to call it a keen intellect, along with a somewhat stubborn nature.
I should undoubtedly leave the folder undisturbed as the man with the MET at the entrance had reminded me.
I should simply make a note of it. Those in charge of the case for the MET might be able to investigate further, and perhaps had already and discovered there was nothing there of importance…
Yes, well, as I had also learned from Brodie, it was often the smallest detail that provided information that led to the resolution of a case.
I listened for any sound that the man at the door might have followed to check on me. I heard nothing, opened my bag, and took out my writing pen. Mindful of leaving any trace that might be found by those investigating the case for the MET, I used the pen to lift the front edge of the folder.
There were several pages of notes, a crime report dated ten years earlier, and an official looking letter from the Prison Commission.
The notes were brief, much the same that I had seen Brodie write.
Dates, with a half-dozen words at most for each to describe something he apparently was most interested in, a yellowed police report that he had kept or persuaded someone within the MET to provide.
The name in the report…Edward Blackwood.
A book in progress, perhaps. Or something else?
There was more as I carefully shifted the report aside and discovered a formal letter dated only a matter of ten days earlier, from the Prison Commission, signed by the chairman of the commission. I leaned closer to read the contents of the letter that was addressed to the chief inspector.
This letter is to inform you of a situation that has
recently occurred.
On 6 January of this year, it was noted that a prisoner
referred to hospital for a medical condition
has in fact escaped and left hospital.
You are advised in the matter as the prisoner was
originally brought into custody through your efforts and others of the Metropolitan Police.
The prisoner in question is considered dangerous. All efforts
will be made to return him to prison.
It was signed by the Commissioner of Prisons, and the last line of the letter—
The prisoner’s name? Edward Blackwood!
Had Chief Inspector Dawes decided to conduct his own investigation after receiving that letter?
It did seem that the chief inspector’s inquiries were not for a book he was writing, but an effort to find Blackwood.
Inspectors with the MET had already made a cursory inspection of the residence according to Mr. Dooley. Yet, that folder with that letter remained.
If Mr. Dooley knew of it, he would surely have told Brodie.
The Commission had chosen to contact Chief Inspector Dawes directly.
Was it to keep the matter out of the newspapers so as not to cause difficulty for the MET, which had suffered failures in other investigations? Or to protect the citizens of London?
What would happen once the folder was inspected by those investigating the murder of the chief inspector?
Would it simply be swept under the carpet, as Brodie indicated had happened in the past with cases that were considered too sensitive, or too dangerous for the citizens of London to know about?
I heard a sound from the front entrance of the residence. No doubt the inspector come to check upon me.
I quickly made my decision and stuffed the letter into my bag.
“Lady Forsythe?” the inspector inquired as he appeared at the entrance to the parlor.
“It seems that Mr. Brodie may have been delayed.”
“It does indeed.”
I thanked him and quickly left before any questions could be asked.
When I arrived at the Strand, Mr. Cavendish rolled out from the alcove in spite of the downpour of rain that had set in.
“Rupert is not about?” I inquired as I paid the driver and made my way into the shelter of the alcove.
“Took himself off toward the Public House a bit earlier.”