Chapter 11 #2
“Has Mr. Brodie returned?” I glanced toward the windows on the second-floor landing.
“A short while ago with Mr. Dooley. Took themselves up to the office in a bit of a hurry and without a word, like before a storm out at sea.”
And I did suppose that Mr. Cavendish should know, as he had spent a good many years aboard ship at sea before the accident that took his legs.
Had there been a development regarding the murder of Constable Martin or Chief Inspector Dawes?
I thought of the letter I had discovered and turned toward the lift.
“It’s not working at present, Miss Mikaela,” Mr. Cavendish informed me. “A bit of water might have gotten into the electric.”
I thanked him as I turned toward the stairs that led to the second-floor landing and the office.
“A bit of caution, miss. Mr. Brodie asked where you were and didn’t much care for the answer when I told him you didn’t say.”
I had not left a note.
“It’s just that he worries about you.” He gave me a wink. “It seems to be a common affliction. I worry about my Effie when she takes a notion to go out and about on her own.”
I thanked him again for the warning and made a quick dash up the stairs.
‘Hadn’t cared for Mr. Cavendish’s answer’ seemed to be an understatement, as I entered the office and was met with a dark glare.
“What is it?” I inquired. “Has something happened?”
The two men exchanged a look. Brodie said nothing.
“There’s been another murder,” Mr. Dooley replied.
“Where?”
“At the law courts, one of the judges, Judge Cameron, was found murdered in his chambers early this morning before others arrived.”
There were dozens of questions.
How was it possible someone was able to get inside?
Were there any suspects?
Three murders in less than a handful of days?
I remembered the letter and retrieved it from my bag. I handed it to Mr. Dooley.
“From the Commissioner of Prisons? How did you come by this?” He handed the letter to Brodie.
“That is somewhat difficult to explain.” I deliberately avoided looking at Brodie.
“Perhaps ye better explain.”
There was something in Brodie’s voice, something different than the usual frustration at something I had done without making him aware.
“After what I learned from Mr. Burke at the Times, it seemed there could be something important to be learned regarding inquiries the chief inspector had made, almost as if he was conducting his own investigation into a certain matter.
“I went to his residence…” I didn’t mention that the inspector on duty had been most accommodating.
“I was able to go inside. I found the letter in a folder on the desk. The name was the same as the name Mr. Burke had provided. It seemed important.”
There was more, but I did not go into further explanation.
“Blackwood,” Mr. Dooley repeated the name with a look across at Brodie.
There was that irritating look between them once more. While it did seem that I had discovered something important, it could be most off-putting. Particularly when Mr. Dooley made no explanation, but instead pocketed the letter, then retrieved his hat and umbrella.
He exchanged another look with Brodie as he turned to leave. “We have every extra man on this, but it may not be enough.”
“Aye.”
Silence filled the office after he left.
The anger that was there when I first returned was gone, hidden behind the mask of the police investigator he had once been.
“Was that letter important?” I asked. It very much seemed that it was. “What did Mr. Dooley mean that it may not be enough? What do you know about Blackwood?”
He did not reply straight away. Instead, he went to the cabinet and retrieved a bottle of Old Lodge whisky, then poured us both a dram and then one more.
He told me of that old case with Blackwood, the details very much the same as my great-aunt had remembered them, a sad, pathetic story that might have come from my own childhood. Except that it had ended in murder.
Brodie was the investigator assigned to the case. Days became weeks, but Blackwood was eventually found with the aid of someone Brodie had worked with before, Constable Martin, who had donned plain clothes and searched the streets, back alleys, and brothels with him.
They followed every clue, even the ones that revealed nothing, until they were able to find Blackwood.
Retired Chief Inspector Dawes had written up the charges for Blackwood and had him taken to the old Scotland Yard, where he was imprisoned until his trial. Judge Cameron presided over Blackwood’s trial at the Old Bailey and handed down his sentence.
Blackwood’s lawyer at the time had argued the encounter was self-defense. In view of the uncertainty of premeditated malice against the victim, Blackwood had been sentenced to thirty years in prison.
Twelve years before. And now Blackwood had managed to escape.
The reality of what that meant was horrifying. Three of four people directly responsible for his capture, conviction, and imprisonment were now dead.
I expected angry words over my visit to the chief inspector’s residence. Brodie surprised me.
“Ye cannot be a part of this.”
Not be part…!
It caught me off-guard, unprepared when I thought I knew exactly, or very near, what he would have said.
“I can help you find Blackwood,” I informed him. “Haven’t I already demonstrated that with the letter? And you cannot possibly do this alone…”
“No, lass. Ye dinna know the places I will go. And I willna be alone.”
Munro. Of course. Who knew the streets of London better?
Still, when I would have objected further, he pulled me to him, a hand gentle on my cheek.
“I need ye here for any information Mr. Dooley may be able to learn from his men on the street. Mr. Cavendish can get word to me if ye learn something important.” He brushed a strand of hair back from my cheek. “That is how ye best help me in this.”
I didn’t argue the point.
“I would have yer promise that ye will not take yerself off again as ye did today.”
I reluctantly nodded.
“I would hear ye say it.”
Bloody hell.
“If you will promise to send word that you are still alive out there,” I countered.
He smiled, wicked man.
“I promise.”