Chapter 6
Six
“I’ve seen worse,” Mr. Brimley commented as he inspected the cut below Brodie’s eye much to the patient’s irritation.
He had arrived earlier, after I placed a call to his shop.
“Fortunate the bone there is not broken. You have a hard head.”
I could have made a comment to that, however, now was probably not the moment for that, with Brodie bound up around his ribs once more and still in a great deal of pain.
“And the ribs? Very likely two or three cracked,” Mr. Brimley continued.
He had loosened the wrap and inspected the bruise over Brodie’s ribs that was now the size of a grapefruit.
“But they all seem to be intact, though you might have torn the muscle there. That could also account for the pain. The syrup I’ve provided will give relief for a while.” He looked over at me.
“Every eight hours will help with the pain, if you can persuade him to take it.”
Laudanum. Brodie had refused to take any.
“I’ve seen wot it does to a man,” he had replied.
Mr. Brimley looked at me as he prepared to leave.
“There will be considerable pain over the next several days. I wish you luck, Miss Forsythe.”
“I’ll see that he behaves himself,” Mr. Conner assured him.
He had returned shortly after we arrived back at the office.
He was able to learn the name of the London company that had provided coach service near the Old Bell tavern the night Burke was murdered.
As he told us what he had learned, he went to the chalkboard and looked at the notes I added the previous evening.
“The man I spoke with pulled the record from that night. The customer paid an extra fare for the amount of time to take him to the pub, and then waited until he was ready to leave.”
“Were ye able to learn the name of the driver?” Brodie replied as I handed him a glass with a dram of Old Lodge whisky.
Perhaps not the best ‘medicine,’ yet one that he accepted and quickly downed.
“A man by the name of Morse,” Mr. Conner replied, “who lives in a tenement near Covent Garden. He’s out and about now on his daily route, but he returns to the yard with his rig by early evening. I’ll be there to ask him a few questions.”
Brodie had made a telephone call to Inspector Dooley at the Yard when we first returned to the office, to let him know what we had learned that morning.
In that same conversation, Mr. Dooley shared there had been several inquiries from newspapers about the ‘incident’ at the Old Bell, with rumors and speculation regarding Burke’s condition and whereabouts.
He had forestalled any comment for now, but then cautioned that the time would come very soon when a statement would have to be made.
I thought it more than a little ironic that Burke was now the subject of both rumor and speculation.
In that same conversation, Brodie had informed Mr. Dooley that we were pursuing additional information regarding possible motives for the attack.
“Portman Square?” Mr. Conner commented as he read the entries I had made on the chalkboard after that telephone conversation ended.
“Not where ye might think to find a common tailor.”
Brodie agreed. “Aye, and it was obvious that he recognized the image on that button. He may even know the customer it was made for, who was obviously at the residence in St. John’s Wood.”
“A gold button worth a year’s wages for any other man. And just one button. I’ve seen the toffs over the years dressed in their finery with no thought to the man who made those fine clothes.”
It was not the first time that I was made aware of the disparity between the class that I had been born into and the one both Mr. Conner and Brodie lived in.
“No offense, Miss Forsythe,” he added.
Brodie’s dark gaze met mine.
Neither of us had chosen the circumstances we had been born into. And yet, here we were.
My partnership with Brodie in our inquiry cases, as well as our personal relationship, was somewhat unusual, and it was not the first time I was aware of the difference between our classes.
Yet, as I had informed him from the beginning of our personal relationship when he had pointed out that we came from different places, I saw a man who had fought his way out of poverty on the streets of Edinburgh and London and made something of himself.
Someone with more dignity and purpose than any man I had known.
For his part, he didn’t attempt to change me, but had accepted me for who I was. Admittedly, with my own shortcomings, along with a somewhat stubborn nature, as he often reminded me. And something that was important to me—he was someone I could trust.
It was just past midday when Mr. Conner departed, to hopefully find the coachman who had taken a fare at the Old Bell from a man who fit the description of the same one who had attacked Brodie.
I had made notes in my notebook as well and now tucked it into my bag. I had added coal to the stove, then looked up as Brodie went to the coat stand. It took some effort as he pulled on the coat once more.
“You should stay and rest,” I reminded him as I then went to retrieve my own coat, as a light rain had begun. “I’m perfectly capable of going to Portman Square to determine if Jardine went there after he disappeared. And you are in a great deal of pain.”
“Aye, ye are capable.”
There was that look in that dark gaze as he took my coat from the stand and then held it for me in spite of the pain.
“But the ribs will hurt whether I’m here or out and about,” he replied.
And when I would have objected further...
“Are ye goin’ to just stand there blatherin’ about it?”
I slowly counted to ten, something I had learned in dealing with a temperamental man who was accustomed to having his own way in things.
‘Pick your battles,’ that inner voice whispered.
I thrust one arm into the sleeve of my coat, then the other, and left him to secure the office, as he bent with some effort to secure the lock to the office.
Mr. Jarvis had just delivered a fare on the Strand and swung his coach about.
Brodie gave him the address for Portman Square, and we climbed aboard, Brodie somewhat slower than usual as he took the seat across.
Portman Square was a pocket of middle-class residences that had emerged very near Regent Street, with the City of London’s efforts at improving housing in areas of poverty.
The Square was an example of former tenements that had been repaired, remodeled, and then made available to professional persons who worked at offices, and those with up-scale businesses such as those at Savile Row and Bond Street.
As Mr. Conner had commented, however, while it was not on an equal with Mayfair, Kensington, or St. James's by any means, it was an address that seemed far beyond the means of a tailor’s assistant.
Number 4 Portman Square was one of several apartments that fronted onto Old Bond Street, very near Regent Street, where one might find a cab or coach that could take him to Savile Row.
The question was, how might a tailor’s assistant be able to afford a daily driver to take him to work there? An inheritance as his employer assumed?
There was a great deal about Mr. Jardine that simply did not make sense. Not the least was his reaction upon seeing that gold button.
We made the ride in a timely manner. Brodie asked Mr. Jarvis to wait as we stepped down to the street.
The contrast from the stark poverty in old tenements to the apartments at Old Bond Street, only a half dozen blocks apart, was startling.
We easily found the apartment building at #4 Portman Square and entered the foyer. According to the information his employer had, Louis Jardine lived in apartment 4-E.
I rang the service bell at the entrance, and a woman appeared who informed us that she was the matron of the building.
She was acquainted with Mr. Jardine, a quiet man who worked for a tailor. His rent was always paid on time, and she frequently saw him leaving of a morning, including earlier that same day. He then usually returned early in the evening after work. He had not yet returned today.
“I would know if he had,” she insisted. She then proceeded to explain that he frequently forgot his key to his apartment and needed to use her key to get in. She shook her head.
“Absent-minded, you see. But an excellent craftsman. He made the medallion that I carry on my set of keys.”
She had shown it to us, a delicate rose made of nickel plate. The detail was remarkable. He was obviously highly skilled.
“Would you care to leave a message?” she inquired. “I will see that he gets it.”
Brodie replied with the excuse that he would call on Mr. Jardine at the tailor’s shop.
“We might search his flat,” I commented as we returned to the coach. “There might be something there that could explain the reason he left from the shop.”
He glanced back at the building.
“But the woman would be at our heels the entire time, then callin’ the police. We can return later.”
I caught a glimpse of the woman we had spoken to at a window, the drape hastily dropped back into place.
It was late afternoon as we returned to the office on the Strand.
Mr. Jardine had not returned to the shop at Savile Row, Mr. Soames informed in a conversation by telephone.
He insisted that it was not like the man, who previously worked seven days a week when necessary to meet the schedule for a client who was expecting a special order. Punctual, loyal, a dedicated craftsman, it seemed. Who had apparently disappeared.
Two drams of whisky that had dulled the pain earlier had long since worn off, and Brodie shifted uncomfortably in the chair at his desk.
I made a couple of suggestions that might ease the pain, including the laudanum Mr. Brimley had provided. He shook his head.
“A dram of yer great aunt’s whisky will do.”
Spoken like a Scot. I poured a glass, then went down to the landing at the street and asked Mr. Cavendish to bring supper from the Public House. He inquired about Brodie’s injuries.
“He’s not one to take to bein’ laid up.”
“No, he is not,” I replied.