Chapter 15
Fifteen
MIKAELA
I returned to the office on the Strand after meeting again with Mr. Brimley.
“I’ve been waitin’ for you to return, miss...” Mr. Cavendish rolled out from the alcove with some urgency in spite of the rain.
“Has something happened?”
“I met with one of the lads from the docks earlier. He finally found a man we were lookin’ for, ole Jasper from when I was still puttin’ aboard ship. He puts up at a homeless shelter over in Merchant Place, but makes his way down to the docks. He was at St. Katherine’s the night ye asked about.”
“Did he see something that night?”
I’d been able to learn almost nothing about the night Thomas Ellsworth was killed, other than what was written in the police report after his body was found. And with what I’d learned from Mr. Brimley, nothing made sense.
“You need to get out of the rain, miss.”
He accompanied me to the lift as he explained what he’d learned.
“You gotta keep in mind that old Jasper is gettin’ on a bit in years, and most nights he’s pretty well into the drink,” he continued as the lift slowly rose to the second-floor landing.
“But he’s certain what he saw because it was strange, if you get my meanin’. Most of ’em wot are found in the river are nothin’ more ’an bones that finally wash up, working women that run afoul of a ‘john,’ and some wot just decide to end their miserable lives.”
We reached the landing outside the office, and he accompanied the hound and me inside.
“What did he see?” I had learned a long time ago never to ignore something seen on the street. Very often it provided valuable information.
“He saw a wagon wot pulled up late in the night. He was sleepin’ it off and the noise on the wharf that time o’ the night woke him. It was a rented hack, but the driver weren’t one of the usual hired drivers. It was a gentleman dressed right fine in evening clothes.
“The man got down and pulled a body out of the coach, and just as odd, the body was dressed in fine clothes as well. Ol’ Jasper thought it might be a bad dream, or he was seein’ things.
It happens now and then. But when he looked again, after the body was dropped into the water, the man climbed back atop the wagon and left. ”
Something an old seaman who was given to drinking heavily and seeing things that were part of some drunken illusion might have imagined, I thought. And yet the description he had given Mr. Cavendish couldn’t be ignored. But what did it mean?
It was highly unlikely that a street person dressed as a gentleman had attacked and robbed Thomas Ellsworth.
Had he perhaps run afoul of someone after supper with his friend, Edward Baldwin, and was then murdered over some disagreement?
I thanked Mr. Cavendish for the information.
“I’ll be havin’ me own supper over at the Public House,” he announced as he returned to the lift. “I’ll bring back a carton for the hound. He’s especially fond of the shepherd’s pie they’re servin’ tonight.”
I smiled to myself as I entered the office. Shepherd’s pie for the hound, indeed.
I turned on the electric, then removed my coat and hung it on the rack.
The hound looked up at me expectantly.
“It would seem that shepherd’s pie is on the menu for this evening,” I commented as I went to the coal stove and set the fire.
The information Mr. Cavendish had learned could be important. But what did it mean?
And what did it mean that the two signatures I had, one from Sir Anderson where Thomas Ellsworth had worked and the second one from an invitation my great-aunt had received from Anthony Ellsworth, were identical.
Made by the same person?
It made no sense. And yet I was reminded of something Brodie had said more than once. That very often the clue that makes no sense is simply hiding something.
What did those identical signatures mean? What had happened that night that Thomas Ellsworth’s body was found in the river at St. Katherine’s dock?
Not for the first time since he’d undertaken the new position with the CID, I wished that Brodie was here with his experience, his thoughts, his insights. But he was not.
Yet, as he had also told me many times, the key to a case was often something not yet learned, something connected that had not yet revealed itself.
There was something about those identical signatures...
What might Sir Anthony say about the two signatures? Merely, an anomaly?
Not according to Mr. Brimley. The signature was one of the surprising differences that had been discovered about twins. No two signatures were alike, even if they were forged. There was always a subtle difference.
The pause of the pen that was characteristic of someone carefully copying a signature, a loop that was distinctive in one signature yet noticeably different in another.
Yet, after careful examination, he had determined that the two signatures had been made by the same hand.
I did not return to Cadogan Square that night but remained at the office should Brodie return. But he did not.
The next morning was cold under a darkened sky as an icy rain fell.
I had dressed and fed to Rupert the rest of the shepherd’s pie that Mr. Cavendish had brought from the Public House the night before.
He had then returned to the alcove as he had in the past, before Miss Effie. It did seem that there might be some difficulty there.
“She’s a bit put out with me. Best that I stay here for the night. It’s fine and dry, if the hound should want to join me,” he had explained.
I did not ask the reason.
The hound chose not to join him. It did seem that a warm fire was favored over the alcove.
“Worthless beast,” said Mr. Cavendish said as he bid me goodnight. “I’ll remember that when you come beggin’ for food.”
Now, it was very nearly the hour Crofts Bank would be open for day. I put on my coat and grabbed my umbrella.
Mr. Cavendish greeted me at the landing. By the expression on his face, whatever the argument was, it appeared that Miss Effie had not yet forgiven him for whatever the difficulty was between them.
“Bah,” he grumbled. “She still has her knickers in a knot, says that I’m bein’ unreasonable,” he grumbled.
“Are you being unreasonable?” I inquired.
“Never!”
That sounded familiar from at least one of my arguments with Brodie. According to him, he was never unreasonable either. It must be a condition men suffer from.
“The woman insists on goin’ to market at seven of the mornin’,” he grumbled. “It’s not fit for her to be out that time of the day and not even light. She says that she needs to be at market to get the best pick of fresh vegetables and meat for Cook at the Public House.”
Mr. Jarvis had arrived with his coach. He had become a trusted member of our inquiries and apparently did not yet have a fare. His timing was impeccable as he pulled his rig to the curb.
“I told her it was too dangerous,” Mr. Cavendish continued as I opened the door of the coach and climbed inside. Rupert followed.
Well into his reasons that she should not go to market that time of day, Mr. Cavendish closed the door of the coach rather sharply.
“If Mr. Brodie should return, let him know that I do need to speak with him about our present inquiry case.”
He nodded. “That I will.”
“You might let Miss Effie win the argument by accompanying her,” I suggested.
I smiled to myself at his rather colorful comment as Mr. Jarvis maneuvered the team down the street.
In spite of the fact that the weather never seemed to lessen the traffic on Fleet Street, we arrived at the entrance to Crofts Bank in good time. I asked him to wait as I stepped down from the coach.
“Do you want himself to remain?” he inquired about Rupert.
I would usually have agreed that he should remain, with a place such as Crofts and in consideration of the fact that they were the official bank of the royal family.
However, considering the somewhat difficult experience of my previous visit in seeing Sir Anthony, and the need to learn what he knew about that last night before Sir Thomas was killed, I decided that Rupert should accompany me. Propriety in such things could take a flying leap.
I climbed the steps and entered the bank. I immediately encountered a well-dressed man I did not recognize from my previous visit who politely informed me that animals were not allowed inside the bank.
“I have an appointment with Sir Anthony,” I informed him.
Not precisely true—however, in light of the fact that he had been difficult to meet in the past, I was prepared to use whatever means was necessary.
“If you will give me your name, I will have the bank manager inform him.”
“That is not necessary.” I replied and told Rupert to ‘follow,’ which was not always successful as he did have a mind of his own when it came to exploring new places.
I was in luck, as he fell into step beside me as I made my way to the lift which led to the offices above the banking floor.
“This is most irregular...” the attendant had followed us.
We entered the lift cage, and I engaged the lever.
“Thank you for your assistance,” I told him as we slowly left the main floor.
I searched the offices on the second floor, still empty due to the early hour. I finally found a woman at the end office, and she informed me that Sir Anthony Ellsworth’s office was on the third floor, next to the conference meeting room.
Instead of returning to the lift, which was now on its way back to the main floor, we used the stairs.
The third floor was quite different from the other floors, with thick carpet that quieted footsteps, several closed doors, a large meeting room with an emblem of the Royal Crown, and double doors at the end of the hallway.
Certain that I had only a few moments before the attendant arrived to inform me once again that I needed an appointment, I entered that office at the end of the hall, much to the surprise of the woman I found there.
She obviously held some position of importance with the bank, dressed in a long black skirt with starched blouse, her hair pulled back and anchored atop her head.
“May I assist you?” she inquired in a somewhat surprised voice.