Chapter 5
The library he spoke of was in another part of the massive Georgian-style building, set apart and very private, its walls lined with shelves filled with books.
There was also a desk and what appeared to be a reading table with an overhead light fixture, and windows that looked out on the adjacent street beyond.
“Sir McQuarrie also uses this as a private meeting room for certain clients who insist on discretion,” young Mr. Sinclair explained.
“I will provide ye with a key for the outside door in the event ye may be here after the usual hours of the day.”
I thanked him.
I was not unfamiliar with libraries. Lady Antonia had a private library at Sussex Square in London, and I had visited the London Library on more than one occasion with Mikaela Forsythe.
While this was much smaller, the room no larger than a formal parlour, the number of books on the shelves behind the desk and on the adjacent wall was still impressive.
There were leather-bound books with various titles regarding the law, as was to be expected. Along with a full shelf that contained Greek and Roman texts, I discovered, as I pulled one from the shelf and read the title on the spine.
Ancient Law by Sir Henry Sumner Maine, and another, The Influence of the Roman Law on the Law of England by Sir Thomas Scrutton. Along with a dozen more shelves filled with leather-bound books.
Sir McQuarrie certainly appeared to be well-read.
I returned both books to the shelf, then went to the table that sat across from the desk.
It contained a tablet of paper and an ink pen on a stand of carved wood with a marble base.
For making notes of his own, no doubt, perhaps regarding a case for a client.
I set my bag on the table and began as I had seen Mikaela and Mr. Brodie do when undertaking a new inquiry case. Yet I would have been lying to myself if I didn’t admit that what I was determined to do was daunting.
I took out my notebook and pen and began with my arrival in Edinburgh and finding Dory’s body.
I paused, the memory of that crowding in, vivid and heart-wrenching, then forced myself past it.
It did no one any good to linger on that sad discovery, least of all my friend, nor did it resolve the mystery of what had happened.
Some things I had barely given a thought to in the past three days were added to the list—meeting Inspector Landry, being put up at his sister’s flat, conversations with Sir McQuarrie.
Anything that might be helpful, including my return to Dory’s room, the letters I had retrieved, and today’s visit to the police morgue. My hand paused over that last item…another piece of information added to the growing list.
I then continued with what the police surgeon had revealed about his findings upon his examination of Dory’s body. In addition, Inspector Landry had assured that I would be able to see the surgeon’s report once it was received by the Inspector’s office.
It was not that I wasn’t aware Munro was there. He was now part of it all with his declaration that he would not be returning to London. Much like an unwanted nanny, I thought earlier. Admittedly, a bit of temper on my part.
Dory was my friend. I felt responsible for what had happened, even though I did understand that at present there was no way of knowing what had led to her murder.
I was not foolish. I had lived in a brothel years before. I knew what happened in places like that, the dangers the ladies faced from an unhappy ‘customer’ or one who’d had too much of the drink. It was a dark and dangerous existence that few escaped.
I was not naive to the fact that I was most fortunate to have been one who had. Yet my friendship with Dory had remained. She had been someone who cared about me and had helped me escape.
“There is something ye should know about the woman’s death that could be important,” Munro commented now, breaking the silence in the library except for my scratchings in my notebook.
I was not completely resigned to his announcement that he would be remaining in Edinburgh. Still, there was that nagging voice that whispered, ‘you cannot do this alone.’
I looked up and frowned at that direct gaze and that frown, as if I was still the child he had first known who had committed some offence. I pushed back the desire to ignore him and his judgment. I was not a child and refused to be treated like one.
“What might that be?” I stiffly inquired and inwardly cringed at the harshness in my voice.
Possibly not the best way to begin, I reminded myself, and was put off by that realization.
“There are two things that could be important.”
It was just like him to dangle something to get my attention. However, he did have my attention. He had experience in certain things from his time on the streets. I needed that experience.
“Two things?”
“The surgeon made no mention of it,” he began as if he had not noticed my sharpness. “Nor Inspector Landry, if he made notice of it.”
He came away from that wall of tall windows across from the desk, his expression softened.
“The person who murdered yer friend was not a large person, nor tall. By the bruises on her hands and arms, she fought back. If not for the blade that was used, she verra likely would have fought off her attacker.”
I slowly set the pen down on the table, thoughtful. “You said there were two things.”
“Aye, the second is the wound. It will often tell ye a great deal if ye know what to look for.”
“Go on.”
“It was made from the right to the left as her attacker bent over her.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Ye know, when ye’ve seen enough of it.”
He picked up the pen than drew across the page in my notebook.
“As ye see here, the wound was larger where it began at the right side of her throat then less as it was drawn across. The person who murdered yer friend was left-handed.”
It took a moment for that to sink in—a smaller, left-handed man was the murderer. Gruesome as it was, I listened. And once more, it was something I verra likely would not have learned otherwise.
“How do we find this person?”
On the streets of Old Town and the New Town, those who profited from such crimes disappeared back into the shadows. With the way people in those places kept to themselves. It seemed impossible that we would be able to find the murderer.
“There are those who might know of such a person.”
I realized that it meant slipping back into those shadows he had left long ago. Questions asked. Some might answer, others would not. It was a stark reminder that this would not be easy.
“Stay here,” he said, pulling me back from my thoughts. “Make yer notes. There could be something important in the letters yer friend sent ye. Do as I say. I’ll be back.” And he was gone.
‘Do as I say?’
I bristled at the words as if we were still at Sussex Square in London and I was still a child as I had been when I first arrived. And I recalled one of Lady Antonia’s explanations about Mr. Munro.
“He is simply looking out for your welfare, my dear, as I have requested of him. Do try not to inflict any serious wounds on the man.”
And more recently she had suggested, “You might speak with Mikaela. She has some experience with such things.”
I had spoken with her about it. She thought the situation quite entertaining.
She wished me luck and had finished our conversation with an odd comparison to leopards and their spots. That was from the past year when I had taken myself off alone in the motor carriage across London to the office on the Strand.
After that incident, I overheard the conversation between Munro and Lady Antonia which no one else would have dared.
“I canna protect the chit when she takes herself off without a word...”
Reckless chit that I was.
I remembered something else Mikaela Forsythe had once said about her participation with Mr. Brodie in their inquiry cases—that two heads and two pairs of eyes were better than one.
I snapped my notebook closed and tucked it into my bag.
Simon Sinclair rose from behind his desk as I returned to the front of the office.
“Is there something I can get for you, Miss Montgomery?” he inquired as a sudden patch of colour spread across his cheeks above an attempt at a thin beard.
“Did Mr. Munro say where he was going?”
“He did not, miss. He did say that you would be remaining until his return.”
Of course, I thought. Neatly tucked away, sitting on my hands as it were when I might be able to help.
“Miss?” Simon asked again.
I looked out at the street. A heavy rain had set in. While Fleshmarket Close was not far, I would be soaked through within very few minutes if I set off afoot.
I was familiar with certain places in the Old Town, however Parliament Square and the adjacent street with professional offices near the Royal Courts were not a place the ladies nor I had frequented in the past.
“How far is the Fleshmarket?”
“The Fleshmarket?” he stammered. “It’s not a place where a lady would go.”
From his speech and manner, he was obviously from a well-placed family. English, perhaps, by his speech, I realized, and quite young. If he only knew.
“It’s near Market Street, but as I was saying...” He became more flustered over his papers and a book that looked quite boring by the title—A Compilation of Law Cases of the 19th Century.
“Where might I find a driver?”
“That would be at the High Street, just up the way. However, I don’t believe Mr. Munro would approve...”
I thanked him and left before he could object further.
There was some advantage to the weather that had set in, as I only encountered one other person at the Square, who quickly disappeared into another building.
However, such was not the case at the High Street. It was crowded as people climbed aboard a horse-drawn tramway while others—those afoot, several coaches, along with an assortment of vendors and draughtsmen—went about their way as usual in spite of the weather.
I found a driver, quickly climbed aboard, and gave him the location of Fleshmarket Close.