Chapter 1
One
“There was a revolver in your possession,” the constable who sat across from me at the New Scotland Yard headquarters pointed out.
“And you were seen bending over the man, according to witnesses, Miss Forsythe.”
“After he had already been wounded,” I pointed out for the third time.
“What was your relationship with the victim?”
That particular question was far too tempting. My relationship with Burke?
Someone who had provided information on a past case, admittedly upon threat of dropping Burke to the floor. I had refrained from the temptation at the time.
“He provided information from time to time for inquiry cases I participate in with my associate.”
“You were seen speaking with him.”
Correction. “He spoke to me.”
“What did he say?”
I thought that might be a little difficult to explain.
I replied instead, “He had asked me to meet him there.”
“Did he say what it was about?”
A proposition? How was I to explain that?
“Do you have any idea what the motive for the attack might have been?”
No more so than the countless people across London that he managed to offend with his articles that exposed affairs, scandals, and all manner of bad deeds. However, I did not say that and instead replied that I did not.
“What can you tell me about the weapon you were found carrying?”
The revolver Brodie insisted I always carry when out and about, due to his experience on the streets.
“The man was obviously stabbed to death, not shot,” I pointed out. “The revolver has not been fired.”
I had been transported to the Yard in a police van, with several others who were ‘detained,’ an unforgettable experience, and then questioned about the incident at the Old Bell.
Upon arrival I had immediately requested to speak with Inspector Dooley, who had worked with Brodie when he was with the MET and on several of our inquiry cases.
He appeared now, a frown on his face.
“Lady Forsythe... I was only just informed that you were here.” He turned to the constable who had been plying me with such insightful questions.
“What is the meaning of this, Constable Jeffers?”
He was handed the report that had been written up after my arrival.
“Are there others in custody?”
“A half-dozen others were brought to the Yard who claimed to have seen the episode, sir. And several others who were present at the tavern afterward.”
“Then I suggest you see to them.”
“But, sir...”
“Lady Forsythe and her associate, Mr. Brodie, are consultants to the MET. I suggest that your attention be best directed to the others who were brought in.”
Constable Jeffers quickly rose from behind the desk, nodded to Mr. Dooley and left.
Mr. Dooley had made inspector two years previous, and in return, we had provided him with information on other cases that came to the MET.
He was Irish, with sandy red brows over a blue gaze, thinning hair, and a bristly red moustache that twitched when he was excited.
“Knee-deep in murder once more, is it, Lady Forsythe?”
“So it would seem.”
He nodded. “Contacted Brodie as soon as I was made aware that you were here. You do have a habit of popping up in the most difficult situations.”
He had ordered coffee from another constable and explained that I was not a suspect and was to be given every courtesy, red moustache twitching when he then dismissed him.
“That will be all.”
No sooner had he made that comment than Brodie arrived.
There is much to be said for knowing someone well—one’s habits, reactions, which had often included disbelief, frustration, and obvious questions with a healthy dose of disapproval thrown in for good measure.
At that moment, I would have wagered on disbelief with a frown thrown in for good measure.
“I assume this has nothing to do with the manor ye were to visit today with her ladyship,” he commented.
I assured him it did not, as Inspector Dooley arranged for me to leave, with a faint smile he attempted to hide beneath his moustache.
“It’s not every man who must retrieve his wife from Scotland Yard,” Brodie commented somewhat drily as we crossed the city after leaving the Yard.
“What the devil were ye thinkin’, meetin’ the man at the Old Bell?”
There were moments when all those years with the MET slipped into our conversations as I explained the note that I had received earlier from Burke requesting for us to meet, and then that blood-stained note with the name of a woman in St. John’s Wood.
At present, I was beginning to feel as though I was being interrogated once again, after I had already provided the details to the constable and then to Mr. Dooley.
“Obviously not a social call, considerin’ the man’s reputation,” Brodie replied. “Wot about when ye arrived?”
I explained the scene in front of the Old Bell with Burke already seriously injured, and that irritating challenge even as he lay dying.
“Do ye have any thought what he meant?”
“What will you do now, Emma Fortescue?”
“It seemed very odd,” I admitted. “Very much like a challenge.”
“Who the devil is Adele DeMille at St. John’s Wood?” Brodie demanded.
I was aware of the name. “An actress at the Drury, as I recall, in a play last year—As You Like It.”
He looked at me as if I might have taken a step away from sanity.
“The name of the play,” I explained. “Though I do not recall any recent roles.” Although I did not keep up with those things, aside from my acquaintance with my friend Templeton.
“It was obviously important enough that Burke wanted me to have the information, and it may have something to do with his murder.”
“Then ye are determined to learn more in spite of the fact that the man had a good many enemies, any one of whom might have wanted him dead.”
We were still ‘discussing’ the merits of making our own inquiries when we arrived at the office.
“There was a reason he wanted me to have that information,” I pointed out, disgusting and unscrupulous as the man was.
“It could be helpful to the investigation by the MET,” I added to make my point. “We will most certainly make Mr. Dooley aware of anything we learn.
“It would seem reasonable to visit St. John’s Wood and see what we might learn from Adele DeMille. Or we might simply continue our search for an appropriate residence. Aunt Antonia did mention that she knew of still another residence in St. James’s, which might be available.”
We had reached the office. Brodie’s response was a muttered curse, his opinion of that notion as he poured us both a dram of my Aunt Antonia’s very fine whisky.
“We’ll go to St. John’s Wood in the morning.”
I smiled to myself. There was usually more than one way around a grumpy Scot.
It was late morning when we arrived at St. John’s Wood, a rural village that was home to artists, writers, and those seeking privacy, with tree-lined streets among green fields. Far different from the city proper, with crowded streets, soot-filled air, and ever-present fog from the river.
It was also removed from central London, where men of means and title kept their mistresses, including, according to rumor written by Theodolphus Burke in a previous scandal sheet article, the current mistress of His Royal Highness.
The postal office, across from quaint shops, a small art gallery, and a coffeehouse with tables set about the flagstone courtyard, seemed the place to begin our search for information about Adele DeMille. However, the clerk did not recognize the name. Obviously not a patron of the London theatre.
“The grocer might know. There would be deliveries,” Brodie suggested. He had Mr. Jarvis, our driver, take us to a shop across the main square from the coffeehouse.
A woman who reminded me of Miss Effie at the Public House across from the office on the Strand greeted us as we entered.
“I know the name,” she replied. “My Robbie delivers regular to Hampton Place, The next street over and out near the park. The bill is always paid on time, though I doubt she pays it herself.
“Calls herself an actress. Keeps to herself, that one. Usually sends round a list of what she wants for the day, though we’ve not received it this mornin’.” She leaned in close and gave me a secretive look.
“She has visitors, if you know what I mean, and has ordered up some French wine that we had a devil of a time finding, expensive as well. I’ve seen her from time to time out and about. She visits the gallery across the way, and she’s been seen at the coffeehouse as well.
I inquired how long she had lived at Hampton Place.
“Must be goin’ on a full year now, lives mighty well for an actress, if you ask me.”
“How would ye describe her?” Brodie inquired.
“She’s not as tall as you,” she directed the comment at me. “Slender, but well-proportioned in the right places, if you get my meanin’. Blonde hair, pretty enough, though I wouldn’t bet that it’s her own color, brown eyes, real private-like.
“What reason might ye be looking for her?” she asked again, curious, and no doubt eager for the latest gossip.
Instead of a direct reply, Brodie thanked her for the information.
We now had the location where Adele DeMille lived, and apparently ‘entertained.’
Brodie gave Mr. Jarvis the woman’s description of where Adele DeMille lived when we returned to the coach.
Absent the usual congestion of London streets, it was only a short ride to Hampton Place, a discreet distance from the village, according to directions Mr. Jarvis obtained from an attendant at the street cafe where a handful of men gathered for late morning coffee.
The manor at Hampton Place was set back from the street discreetly behind a stand of trees and a stone wall fence with wrought-iron gate.
Brodie had Mr. Jarvis wait across the street as we left the coach and approached that gated entrance.
The manor was red brick with white stone in the Georgian style, with tall windows that looked out on well-kept gardens. A flagstone circular drive for guests boasted statues of two life-sized lions, one at each side of the steps that led to those double doors.