Chapter 9
Nine
In consideration of the late hour of the afternoon, I first placed the telephone call to Mr. Dooley at Scotland Yard. I was informed that he was not available and left a message that he return my call at his earliest convenience.
It was very nearly three hours later, a long day indeed for him, when he finally returned the call, and I explained my request to be able to see Sir Thomas’s flat at Kensington.
“I can arrange for that as part of our investigation,” he assured me, then added, “Sir Ellsworth indicated the flat would eventually be cleared out and then turned over to the solicitor.”
He assured me that he would contact the solicitor first the next morning, then let me know when I might be able to visit the flat.
I then turned my thoughts to the notes I needed to make after my meeting with Edward Baldwin.
As it grew later, I turned on the electric and set fire in the coal stove against the cold. The hound curled up on the rug in front and was soon snoring with appreciation.
“You are welcome,” I told him. He did not so much as break rhythm.
After making my notes in my notebook, I stepped up to the chalkboard. Rain had set in, pelting the windows and the roof overhead.
“Not a night to be out and about,” I commented. Rupert’s only response was to roll over and commence snoring once more.
I poured myself a dram of Old Lodge whisky, then stood back and read what I had written on the board.
I had found in the past that I often remembered something more when going back over my notes—clues, observations, something mentioned indirectly, even one’s appearance and manner.
Was a person quiet and barely responsive to a question? Were they vague, attempting to take the conversation in another direction? Did they appear to be uncomfortable at a particular question? Or perhaps indignant and refusing to answer any questions?
There had been none of that in my meeting with Mr. Baldwin. He had been forthcoming about his friendship with Sir Thomas, even congenial and sharing stories of their university days and their escapades as the Three Musketeers. I very much appreciated his stories.
There had been sadness there as well as might be expected for the loss of that friendship. And sympathy for the loss of the woman Sir Thomas loved and then her death in an unfortunate accident
It was something that provided another insight. Sir Thomas had encountered her only days before, out riding in the park. It was not something she was skilled at, and he had questioned the reason she was there with a group of other ladies who were far more accomplished.
According to Mr. Baldwin, she told Sir Thomas that Anthony insisted that she ride about with the other ladies, two of them married to men of extreme wealth and influence which could be an advantage for Crofts Bank.
And then the accident while out riding that had taken her life. A last conversation between Anne and Thomas, filled with regret. If things had been different...
According to Edward Baldwin, Thomas was never the same afterward.
I took another sip of Old Lodge. What did all of it tell me about Sir Thomas Ellsworth?
As the weather worsened in that way that often happened with the season, water swirling up over the edge of the curb when I stepped out onto the landing, I made the decision to remain for the night.
I put more coal in the stove, much to Rupert’s approval, then placed a telephone call to my housekeeper to let her know I was quite safe at the office and would not be returning.
“Very good to hear from you, Miss Mikaela,” the line crackled due to the weather. A frequent occurrence.
“I had thought to contact the police and report that you had gone missing. So good to hear that you are not injured or missing a leg or two.”
Mrs. Ryan was Irish and frequently given to expressing her opinion on matters. I could have simply ignored her and had known others to dress down an employee for what might be considered a rude comment.
However, I had known Mrs. Ryan since she was part of my great-aunt’s household, then my own. Her daughter had been a maid and companion to my sister.
It was that position as companion that resulted in Mary Ryan’s death and the first inquiry case.
There were things that simply crossed any social barrier, a tragic death of a young woman was one of those things.
Her mother, Mrs. Ryan, was more like family, and when the inquiry case was resolved and the murderer dealt with, and my sister found alive, it was quite simply most natural that Mrs. Ryan take the position of my housekeeper.
In spite of the fact that she was Irish and Brodie was a Scot, they got along more like an older sister and brother.
“She is verra stubborn and outspoken,” he had commented. “She isna above tellin’ ye exactly what she thinks.”
“Only if someone is wrong,” I had pointed out. “For all that she is Irish, she is quite like yourself, somewhat stubborn and not above telling you what she thinks.”
“You should remind her of her station,” an acquaintance of my great-aunt once pointed out about Mrs. Ryan.
“She is far too familiar, and Irish!”
To which my great-aunt had replied, “As I recall, Agnes, your grandfather was Irish, and far too familiar with a particular Englishwoman.”
The conversation had immediately ended.
The pounding on the office door brought the hound up out of sleep as if he might have been launched from a cannon. He landed on all four feet, fur standing on end, and barking fiercely.
It was after ten o’clock according to the clock on the wall beside Brodie’s desk. As Rupert continued to sound the alarm, I slipped my hand into my travel bag. I retrieved the revolver as the pounding continued. And then a woman’s voice.
I slowly approached the door, turned back the bolt, then stepped back a safe distance. The woman burst through the opened door.
She was wrapped in a man’s coat over a garish crimson gown, dripping wet from the rain, her dyed blonde hair plastered to her head, with streaks of make-up streaming down her face.
“Is he here?” she demanded.
Somewhat taken aback by the sight before me, that question brought me back from momentary shock. It wasn’t every day that a near-drowned woman appeared at the office, much less long into the night.
The hound had set up to howling amid intermittent barking, obviously taken aback by the sight as well.
“He said I could come here. Is he about?” Then she saw the revolver.
“Blimey!” she screeched with alarm which set the hound off again. “Don’t kill me! I’m jus’ doin’ as he said!”
There were several thoughts that entered my mind at that moment, with one at the top of the list.
Who was the woman? And the next, why had Brodie told her to come to the office?
Order of the day, close the door before we were all awash with the rain that had increased and puddled on the landing, then quiet the hound who appeared to be eyeing the woman’s leg, although it was difficult to tell, considering the layers of her soggy gown. Followed by those questions.
“Close the door,” I told her. “Before we are all soaked through.”
She watched me with obvious unease as she reached behind her and closed it.
“Will he attack?” She obviously meant the hound, although I had yet to lower the revolver.
“He does have a preference for ankles and boots,” I replied as I attempted to quiet him. He gradually calmed to a snarl, teeth appearing as he continued to warily watch the woman.
“I know you,” she said, teeth chattering from the cold. “I seen you here before. He didn’t say nothing about you bein’ here tonight though.”
A memory slowly surfaced of an encounter from when I had come to the office on the Strand at my great-aunt’s insistence when my sister had disappeared.
A man I could trust, Aunt Antonia told me, after the police failed to find any trace of Linnie or her maid.
That memory, of a woman in a chartreuse gown with most of her overflowing the bodice, departing the office as I arrived, had raised questions all their own.
I discovered much later, in one of those private moments between Brodie and myself, that there was a time when he had kept company with the woman from time to time. That explanation, from ‘time-to-time’, had only one explanation.
Not that I thought Brodie had never been in the company of women. He was a most engaging man, and I was most certainly not concerned or green-eyed. Yet I was not na?ve in that regard, and had simply dismissed at the time whatever his personal habits might have been.
Still, it was not unusual for a married man to take other company. My father was an example of that, which was undoubtedly part of my hesitance to marry in the first place. Brodie had overcome that hesitation through our various adventures in inquiry cases.
It was a matter of trust, as my great-aunt had pointed out...a man I could trust. However, the soggy, dripping creature before me had been told she could come to the office with no word that I might be there...hmmm.
“You might put the thing down,” the creature reminded me now. “He did say that he would meet me here.” She gave me a long look.
“Me name’s Betty. And I know yer that lady he took up with, Lady Forsythe.”
The ‘lady he took up with’ preferred to call her the creature.
“You have business with Mr. Brodie?” I inquired, setting the revolver down at the top of his desk.
“I suppose you could call it that. Mind if I warm meself before the fire?” she asked.
“Not at all.”
Betty approached the coal stove where Rupert had retreated. The hair immediately went up on his back and he snarled a warning. It did appear that he did not care for the creature encroaching on his territory.
“I’ll just stand here,” she wisely commented.
“Your business here?” I inquired again.
“Mind if I take this off?” she inquired about the soggy coat.
“Please do.” It was better than having a series of puddles across the floor.