Chapter 12
Twelve
We stayed the night at the office once again.
I rose early with Brodie as he prepared to leave.
“Did Blackwood have a family in London? Might they have heard from him?” I inquired as he dressed.
He gave me a long look, a reminder of our conversation the previous evening. I went into the outer office.
There was a scratching at the door, and I let the hound in. He immediately went to warm himself near the fire in the stove that Brodie had set when we first rose.
The hound was most amicable, most of the time. He did like Brodie, when he had food that could be beggared. However, he had his other moments.
I slipped him a biscuit, left from the previous day. He was not some miniature, yapping nuisance and could be quite intimidating. He was my insurance against any argument regarding that conversation the night before.
“Good boy,” I told him as he inhaled the biscuit then went to lie before the firebox.
“What of your conversation with Mr. Brown? He is usually well informed and has been a reliable source in the past.”
I looked up, uneasy at the somewhat obvious silence as Brodie came into the outer office. “I promised to assist from here if there should be word. I did not promise that I wouldn’t ask questions.”
“Ye must remind me to be more specific next time.”
I didn’t bother to acknowledge that.
“As to your question, I have spoken with Mr. Brown. He will get word to me when he learns something about Blackwood. The man seems to have a need for morphine; however, having fled the hospital, he’ll have only what he can steal.”
“What were you forced to promise in exchange for his assistance?”
“Ah lass, ye doubt me. It is himself that owes me the favor.”
And not the first time I had heard that. I did wonder about their ‘working relationship;’ however, I had learned not to ask too many questions about it.
Part of the things, Brodie informed me, it would be best that I didn’t know about.
“When will I hear from you?” I asked instead as he donned his thick worsted coat and billed cap, even though I already knew the answer.
That was the complicated part of working apart, particularly in a situation that was more than merely following up on information as in the case of a missing necklace.
“Mr. Dooley will be working the case from the MET. I will send word round to Mr. Cavendish.”
Which translated to…maybe, perhaps if possible, or ‘yes dear.’
“Might someone from the Agency be of help?”
He shook his head. “Best to keep this away from the Agency if possible.”
I understood the reasons.
“I was thinking there might be something to learn from the hospital,” I suggested.
“It would be easy enough to inquire. Mr. Dooley would have information for that. It could be useful.”
I smiled as I looked over at him.
“Aye, perhaps.”
It was a compromise of sorts. Rather than sitting on my hands, so to speak.
“If ye learn something important, give it to Mr. Cavendish. He’ll find Mr. Brown and get it to me. And yer to take the hound with ye.”
“Of course, dear.”
There was that smile just at one corner of his mouth.
He checked the revolver and put it in his coat pocket, and then he was gone, down the stairs with a final word to Mr. Cavendish, then across the street until he disappeared.
I added notes regarding the case to the chalkboard and frowned as I read the names of the three persons who had been murdered: Constable Martin, Chief Inspector Dawes, retired, and Magistrate Judge Cameron.
Three of four men responsible all those years before for catching Edward Blackwood after that horrific incident, bringing him to trial, finding him guilty, and then sentencing him to prison.
And yet there remained one more man who had led the investigation when he was still with the MET.
A cold shiver ran through me at the thought that Brodie’s name might be added to that list.
What was it that drove someone to murder after all this time?
Revenge, as Brodie said, seemed the most logical.
Blackwood had been ruined financially, through his own devices to be certain. An argument and duel that followed took the other man’s life, though Blackwood had pleaded that he was acting in self-defense.
The man had lost everything, a dark reminder of my own father’s dismal end.
What of Blackwood’s family? What had happened to them? If they were still in London, would he go there?
What more might Mr. Dooley be able to tell me?
The weather had decided to remain miserable, wet, and cold.
I thought of Brodie. It was some comfort that he was to meet up with Munro. I was aware they were quite capable. The streets of London were familiar to both of them. Still, three men involved with that case years before were now dead…
Rather than return to Mayfair for clothing appropriate to the weather, I borrowed one of Brodie’s jumpers and pulled it on over my undergarments. It carried a bit of the scent of cinnamon and made me feel somehow close to him.
Foolish, of course, yet it was perfect with my walking skirt for the weather. I appreciated the warmth on my neck—women’s fashions could be quite lacking and not at all appropriate for trekking about London in the ice and mud.
I added my long coat, then gathered my travel bag with my notebook and umbrella.
The foul weather did not disappoint as I locked the office door and navigated the icy steps to the sidewalk by the street.
Mr. Cavendish emerged from the alcove that now also included a coal stove against the cold to warm himself, and Rupert as well. There had been breakfast earlier from the Public House.
“Will you be needin’ a driver, Miss Mikaela?” he inquired, which was his barely discreet way of inquiring where I was off to, after Brodie had no doubt spoken to him.
“New Scotland Yard on a matter that might be of assistance to the case.”
He nodded, paddled out to the edge of the sidewalk and let out a shrill whistle over the usual noise on the street of coaches and cabs that paid no heed to the weather when a fare was to be earned.
A driver eventually arrived and eased his rig to a stop at the sidewalk. I gave the driver the destination, then climbed aboard.
Mr. Cavendish held the door open from the bottom of the gate.
“Up with you,” he called to Rupert, who joined me with great excitement as well as mud.
“He gets a bit put out when the weather is like this and he hasn’t been out and about.”
“Following instructions, are you, Mr. Cavendish?” I inquired as he closed the door of the coach.
He grinned. “The ride will do him good.”
The ride from the Strand to the embankment was not far; however, the weather had made a mess of things as usual during winter in London.
It was very near midday when we arrived. Rupert jumped down onto the walkway at the entrance. I paid the driver, and we entered the foyer of the New Scotland Yard.
Rupert frequently generates surprise when we are out and about. The young constable at the desk previously was quite taken aback and started to protest.
“We don’t allow animals inside the premises, miss.”
I rarely used my title, however…
“Lady Forsythe,” I clarified. “And it’s quite all right. He is with me. I would like to speak with Inspector Dooley if he is available, regarding an important matter.”
Somewhat flustered by the situation, the young constable picked up the handpiece of the telephone and put through a call.
It was only a matter of minutes until Inspector Dooley arrived, an amused expression on his face as he assured the young constable that it was quite all right for the hound to be allowed inside the offices of the ‘Yard.’
“You caused quite a stir, Miss Mikaela.”
He escorted me into a private office. Rupert followed dutifully along.
I explained that Brodie had left earlier while I remained at the office to assist as I could.
He nodded. “Brodie spoke of it. And we have a good many men, plain-clothed, brought on extra duty to assist as well.”
I explained the information I wanted that might be useful.
“What of Blackwood’s family? If they remained in London, might he go there?”
He shook his head. “We already made inquiries. His wife and son left London shortly after the end of the trial, and all but disappeared. We were not able to find any indication they might have returned.”
Convicted, sent to prison, his family destroyed by the scandal, and now Blackwood was taking his revenge.
“What hospital did he escape from? Have the people there been questioned?” I thought of the traces of morphine Brodie found on the chief inspector’s shirt.
“What was he being treated for? It could be important.”
“St. Bart’s is the hospital. St. Bartholemew, that is. It’s on my list for inquiries.”
I thanked him and stood to leave.
“I’ll accompany you, Miss Mikaela, though I doubt they’d allow that fine fellow inside,” he added with a glance down at the hound. He was able to acquire a plain-clothed driver with the MET.
St. Bartholemew was the oldest hospital in London, located in West Smithfield very near St. Paul’s Cathedral, an imposing grey stone building that filled an entire street block, the cathedral and graveyard nearby.
Prisoners, Mr. Dooley explained as we arrived at the main entrance, were taken there if there was an emergency or a prisoner became ill, which happened frequently. They were well guarded, treated for whatever illness, then returned to prison, though some did not as they did not survive.
What was the illness or emergency that brought Sir Edward Blackwood there? And what might it tell us?
I had worked previously with Mr. Dooley, as I had first known him, when Brodie was taken off in another direction on an inquiry case.
I was pleased for him when he made inspector, however he informed me that ‘Mr. Dooley’ would do, as he was most familiar with that, the same as his wife called him, usually when she was in a temper.
He was congenial and likable, yet most proficient in his responsibilities, and a valuable resource for our inquiry cases.