Chapter 2
Two
The remnants left from a takeaway supper from the Public House had long been consumed by Rupert after we returned from St. John’s Wood.
At present, he lay before the coal stove, snoring as he dozed, while I stood before the chalkboard after making my notes. A late edition of the Times newspaper lay open at Brodie’s desk.
He had purchased a copy from one of the newsboys on the street after we returned. There was no mention of Burke’s murder on the crime page or anywhere else in the newspaper, which seemed to indicate that word of his death had not reached the Times offices.
Mr. Dooley had spoken of keeping the attack from the newspapers as long as possible, with the hope that his attacker might assume that he had not succumbed to his wounds and possibly draw the murderer out. Brodie thought it highly unlikely.
“It could be useful…however, as time passes word will eventually leak, particularly with Burke’s reputation and among others in the newspaper business,” he pointed out. “The man was always looking for the next story, and this one will be most sensational.”
He was right of course. As much as I disliked Burke, he had quite the reputation for gossip and the kind of scandal that people seemed addicted to, not unlike a narcotic.
“It could be helpful to visit his office at the Times,” I suggested. “There might be a clue there that would tell us something. I’ll go early in the morning when there are fewer staff about before the other reporters arrive for the day.”
“And then there is this,” Brodie held up the gold button with that unusual, embossed design that I had found in Adele DeMille’s bedchamber.
“Might ye have seen it before? Does it mean anythin’ to ye?”
I admitted that it did not.
“It’s not unusual to find them on a gentleman’s waistcoat. The Prince of Wales has a penchant for them with the initials HRH embossed on them. I suppose in the event someone needed to be reminded who he is.”
“That information no doubt from yer friend, Templeton?” Brodie commented.
“She was quite amused by it. It seems that all of the buttons on his great coat and waistcoat were gold and embossed with those same letters. I did wonder if his underdrawers might also have gold buttons.”
“Ye have an interest in His Highness’s drawers?” he inquired with that smile at one corner of his mouth.
“I suspect it might be quite an ordeal to be rid of them when necessary,” I replied, ignoring the obvious smirk.
“Although I suppose they could be quite valuable to a collector of such things—such as Fabergé eggs, a bauble Marie Antoinette might have worn, or some other rare gemstone.”
“Ye are a wicked woman, Mikaela Forsythe.”
I smiled to myself. “I do try.”
“There are no initials on this button that might tell us something,” he commented, inspecting it under the light from the electric lamp on his desk. “But it does have what looks verra like the image of an animal, possibly a dog.”
I had noticed that as well when I found it. It had reminded me of something, although I couldn’t quite remember what or where I might have seen something like it.
“Perhaps the man who owns the coat considers himself a hunter, like those ye know who chase around after a poor fox,” he speculated.
Perhaps.
There was someone who might recognize it. My great aunt.
I would call on her and see if she had seen that embossed image before.
“What of Inspector Dooley?” I asked. “You did promise to let him know if we learned anything. “
“He’ll be gone by now at end of day,” Brodie replied. “I’ll pay him a visit in the morning. He may have something that could be useful with our inquiries as well. And there could be something to be learned from the patrons at the Old Bell at night.”
“The police did question them,” I pointed out.
“Aye, but they might remember something more with one of their own, there for a pint or two.”
Such as a man who was very accomplished at blending in, sharing a drink, picking up gossip on the street or in a tavern?
There were occasions when Brodie and I worked separately on an inquiry. As I knew well enough, two could be far more efficient than merely one person following leads and clues.
I rose early; however, Brodie was already gone, with the intention of meeting with Inspector Dooley before he began work for the day. As for myself, I was determined to visit Burke’s office at the Times early as well, when there would be fewer about who might question my presence.
I dressed, collected my bag with pen and notebook inside, then set the lock to the office. The hound greeted me on the sidewalk with a lick of the hand, no doubt in search of a biscuit—cheeky fellow.
“Morning, miss,” Mr. Cavendish greeted me. “Mr. Brodie said you were to have this.” He handed me the morning edition of The Times newspaper.
“Will you be needing a driver?”
I nodded as I opened the paper and immediately turned to the crime sheet and quickly scanned it. There was nothing about the attack on Burke. I then turned to the scandal page and discovered the same.
There were no glaring headlines about Burke’s death, no top sheet announcement of the grisly murder that had robbed the city of a valuable source of information, even when that information was often glaringly lacking in factual information. Such was Burke’s reputation.
Mr. Cavendish had waved down a driver, Mr. Jarvis, who accompanied me on a good many of my travels across London. I gave him the destination of the Times offices on Fleet Street, then climbed inside.
When we arrived, I directed him to an adjacent street where we would be less conspicuous and asked him to wait.
I stepped down and waited in the alcove of a shop that was not yet open and watched the entrance of the Times for several moments.
As I was about to step off the sidewalk, a coach pulled up to the entrance and a man stepped down. I immediately recognized Arthur Walter, the publisher of The Times, whom I had met previously.
I waited until he had entered the building. Inside the foyer, he exchanged a brief conversation with the young attendant.
I waited until Mr. Walter had entered the hallway toward the lifts that would take him to the second floor. As he disappeared, I crossed the street and entered the building.
The attendant looked up and smiled a greeting.
“Good morning, miss. You’re out bright and early.”
I smiled as well with the excuse I had planned for just such an encounter. “An advertisement that I want to place.”
“Ah, yes, that would be at the third floor. Mr. Henry can assist you.
Then, on the chance that it might provide information, “Is Mr. Burke about this morning?”
That grin once more. “Not as yet. He was working a story that’s kept him out and about of late.”
“Yes, of course.”
That told me two things—if Mr. Walter knew what had happened to his most popular reporter, the king of the scandal sheets, there was no indication that this young man was aware.
Admittedly, it was only a matter of time, of course. The longer Burke was absent, the more likely the truth would be discovered.
It also told me that Burke had been spending considerable time chasing down a story. Was that story the one about Adele DeMille that he had been so keen for me to know about?
I thanked the young man and turned toward the stairs instead of the lift.
The stairwell connected to the landing on the second floor very near Burke’s private office. It was also some distance apart from the publisher’s office.
I paused before reaching the second floor and listened for any sounds that might come from the floor and the reporters’ gallery just beyond. It was quiet, and I continued the last few steps up to the landing.
I had previously been to Burke’s office when I had attempted to learn information about a particularly difficult case. Burke had been his usual impossible self, with one deprecating remark after another, along with his usual scathing comment about a ‘woman’s place.’
That had not gone over particularly well. Still, as I now approached the door to his office, there was a sense of great loss.
Depending on how one looked at it, it could be said that Burke had either elevated the art of journalism, or possibly not.
In the very least, he caused people to read the newspaper, most particularly his comments about society in general and the scandals he exposed.
And in spite of his condescending remarks toward me, he had once provided a rather backhanded compliment.
“I do look forward to our encounters, Lady Forsythe. You are the only woman I have ever encountered who is well-read and can intelligently hold her own in conversation. But I will not divulge my source in the matter. I do have a reputation to maintain. As a matter of fact, I may write a book about my adventures.”
As I say, condescending and full of himself.
With a glance in both directions down the hallway, I tried the latch on the door to his office. Not surprisingly, it was locked, no doubt when he departed for the Old Bell that night before, when I was to meet him.
I glanced about once more to make certain no one else was about.
I had acquired some unusual but useful skills working inquiry cases with Brodie. One of those was the ability to pick a lock. I removed a pin from my hair.
There was an obvious skill to picking a lock as he had pointed out, that required a calm manner, a sensitive touch, patience, and a good ear to hear the mechanisms inside a lock as they clicked, giving way one by one.
There were different types of locks—early ones that could be difficult because of time and the debris that made its way inside, although a well-worn lock might also easily give way.
Then there were more modern locks that were improved with a complicated set of mechanisms that were often difficult to manipulate.
However, a lock on a door inside a building often proved to open quite easily.
It seemed that Brodie was a master in the art of picking locks.