Chapter 5 #2
In the examining room, Julia removed the covering sheet and drew a breath.
So like Lizzy, she thought. She smoothed back the sister’s auburn hair, and tears stung at the waste of another young life.
She spent ten minutes on initial observations and then prepared Brigid Dowling’s body for identification.
O’Malley escorted a white-faced, bespectacled young man into the cramped examining room.
He raked nervously at his straw-colored hair, leaving patches that stood up like a badly scythed hayfield.
Julia had turned the gaslight burners up, and the clerk blinked at the brightness.
The bump in his throat jumped as he looked at the shrouded figure on the table.
“There’s no rush, Mister Sommers,” Julia said. “Tell me when you’re ready.”
The young clerk swallowed hard and nodded. She drew the sheet to Brigid’s chin, exposing her auburn hair and pale face, shielding the livid bruises on her neck.
Tennant asked, “Is this the young woman who registered as Brigid Dowling and left her carpetbag at the Chapter House?”
“Yes,” the clerk rasped and turned away. Julia replaced the sheet and patted his arm.
Tennant said, “Thank you, Mister Sommers. Sergeant O’Malley will take you to another room and ask you to sign a statement.”
“Never seen a dead body before.” The clerk’s hand shook as he pulled off his spectacles and wiped them with his handkerchief.
“Come along, son,” O’Malley said, gripping the clerk’s arm. “We’ll find you a cup of tea and a quiet place to finish our business.”
When the door closed behind them, Julia said, “We forget, don’t we?”
Tennant regarded her curiously. “Forget what?”
“The sight of our first dead body.”
“Paddy remembers. He’ll see the fellow through it.” Tennant pulled out his watch. “It’s getting late. I must inform the commissioner and Marlborough House without delay.”
“Of course,” Julia said. “There is no need to stay.”
“I know.” He half smiled and said, “If anything, I’m in your way.”
“I didn’t mean that. Two postmortems will have me working well past seven. It’s a long time for you to wait.”
“That’s a long day for you as well. I’m most interested in Brigid Dowling. May I suggest you finish her autopsy and then return tomorrow to complete the cabbie’s postmortem?”
“I have an appointment in the morning that I can’t postpone.”
“Then Doctor MacKay or Doctor Abernathy. I’ll see to it.”
Julia folded the sheet to Brigid’s shoulders and brushed her auburn hair from her forehead. “Nine months ago … we stood in this exact spot, looking down at another Irish girl who died violently. Franny Riley.”
“The man who put Franny on this table will never harm another person.”
“Grandfather and I are eager to hear about it.”
“Then may I … will you permit me to drop in at Finsbury Circus later this evening? To hear your preliminary findings?”
“Of course.” Julia looked at him, surprised by his stilted tone. “Barring surprises, it appears straightforward. Manual strangulation.”
“I’d also like to hear about Lizzie Dowling and the events on the Isle of Wight.”
“And I’d like to look at that hand,” Julia said, pointing. “You may think it’s nothing, but infection is always a danger. Those bandages should be changed.”
He looked at the smudgy wrappings. “You’re probably right.”
“Come for dinner if you can manage it. If not, then something in the library on a tray.”
“Thank you.”
Julia remembered the last time he sat in her library. Collapsed is a better word. It was their last meeting before the dismaying end of the Romilly case. He’d been too exhausted to finish Mrs. Ogilvie’s sandwiches. Then he disappeared for nearly six months.
The same Marlborough House footman who had admitted Tennant earlier led him into the hall to wait for Lady Styles.
The only change to the foyer was the holiday pots of white chrysanthemums and holly that the staff had added since the morning.
Tennant circled the room, checking the time.
Just before six. Not changing yet for dinner.
He’d just tucked away his pocket watch when Lady Styles appeared.
“Good evening, Inspector,” she said, offering her hand. “Your return must mean news, good or bad.”
“I’m sorry to say it’s bad news, Lady Styles. Brigid Dowling is dead.”
She closed her eyes. “I’ve been afraid of that.”
“There is little we know at present, but the commissioner and I thought Marlborough House should be informed immediately.”
“Thank you, Inspector. It’s been a long day for you, I know.”
Tennant glanced over his shoulder. The foyer opened into hallways traversed by passing servants. “May we speak somewhere more private? Perhaps the room where we sat this morning?”
“If you don’t mind the chill. The servants don’t light a fire there in the afternoon.”
“I won’t keep you long, but if you prefer to get a wrap …”
She shook her head, and Tennant followed her to the sitting room. They sat in the same chairs they’d occupied that morning.
“We found Brigid Dowling’s body and that of her cabdriver in an abandoned warehouse near the river. He’d picked her up at two o’clock. Someone murdered them within a half mile of the Chapter House.”
Susan’s hand flew to her throat, clutching the mourning brooch pinned to her collar. “I thought …” She cleared her voice. “I thought perhaps an accident, not murder.”
“Shall I ring for the footman? Some water, perhaps?”
Susan shook her head. “Just a moment, please, Inspector.” She wrapped her arms and shivered in the cold room.
Tennant watched her. Her gaze dropped to the carpet.
Her focus moved back and forth between two points on the patterned rug.
That morning, he sensed a formidable intelligence behind her gaze.
He thought, She hasn’t said she doesn’t understand or asked what it means.
Lady Styles was working it out for herself.
Finally, she looked up. “Is there anything more you can tell me, Inspector?”
“We know that someone lured Miss Dowling to her death. A witness saw a tall, well-dressed man with a ginger beard waiting for her with a hackney. A false beard, as it happens.”
Tennant paused, expecting a reaction or a question. When none came, he continued. “The witness saw them enter the cab, and we recovered a costume beard near the murder site. We found no letter on her body or with her belongings.”
“But the letter from her sister … Inspector, her note to me said she was bringing it to me.”
“We didn’t find it. Lady Styles, just to be clear, did you send a cab to bring her to Marlborough House.”
“I did not.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Throughout their conversation, she had watched him closely as he spoke. Tennant waited, curious about what she would say next. Lady Styles got right to the heart of the matter.
“Inspector, it seems unlikely that two ordinary Irish servant girls—sisters living their separate lives hundreds of miles apart—that their suspicious deaths are unconnected. Unlikely is an inadequate word.”
“I agree. The open verdict in Lizzie Dowling’s death must be reconsidered. That much is clear. Murder is the likely conclusion.”
Lady Styles leaned her right elbow on the chair’s armrest and rubbed her forehead. “My God, the queen’s servant and a second murder linked to the first … the thought staggers.”
“We know little else,” Tennant said. “And I doubt Doctor Lewis’s autopsy will yield surprises, but one never knows.”
“Julia Lewis?”
“Yes. That is all for now, Lady Styles, unless you have a question before I leave.”
When she shook her head, he stood. “The commissioner thought you might prefer to inform the Prince and Princess of Wales unless you want me to do it.”
“No. I will tell them. And Princess Louise. I dread breaking the news to her even more than the Princess of Wales.”
“May I ask why?”
“Princess Louise loathes being fussed over by servants, but Lizzie was the exception. The princess was very fond of her.”
“Was the princess aware of Brigid Dowling’s travel plans?”
“Yes, Inspector. And she was as curious as I about what the girl planned to say.”
“Brigid Dowling’s proposed visit to Marlborough House was generally known?”
“Yes. I don’t know how this affects your investigation, but we leave tomorrow afternoon for Osborne House. Christmas with the queen on the Isle of Wight, by Her Majesty’s command.”
“When do you return?”
“After the new year. So, if you have additional questions …”
“Lady Styles, you realize the person responsible for Brigid Dowling’s death not only knew the day she arrived in London but also where she stayed. That person either committed the crime or arranged it.”
She held his eye. “I do realize, Inspector.”
“I’ll ask you to think carefully, and before you leave—”
“I’ll think of little else. You’ll have my list of those who knew Miss Dowling’s movements before I leave for the Isle of Wight.”
“Thank you, Lady Styles.”
She stood but didn’t move to the door. Then she turned to him. “I am a woman who lives in other people’s houses. But my title and my position as a senior attendant to the princess protect me. Lizzy Dowling had no such shield. And now her sister.”
Tennant hailed a hansom on Marlborough Road and gave the cabbie the address of the Lewis town house.
Tennant settled in for the ride to Finsbury Circus.
Not chilly, exactly, Tennant thought, assessing the temperature of his first meeting with Julia.
Restrained. But what could he expect after his abrupt departure and a nearly six-month absence?
When the cab rattled to a stop at number 17, gaslight from lamps flanking the front door cast a golden glow across the house’s limestone facade.
He wondered if the atmosphere indoors would match its warmth.