“A crime of passion?” I suggested. “What if she decided against the marriage for some reason?”
“She had made plans to leave London,” Brodie pointed out. “By her friend’s words, she seemed verra happy. And there is the second photograph. What would be the reason to send it to the family?”
He did have a way of seeing every aspect of a situation. It was one of the things I admired, the way his thoughts worked. Of course, I realized it no doubt came from his early life on the streets and his work with some of the worst criminals.
“A man scorned? Or perhaps blackmail?” I suggested. “He may have intended to demand money from her family.”
“Blackmail perhaps if she had only been abducted. However, she was obviously already dead in the second photograph,” he replied.
“Then you’re certain he didn’t kill her?”
“He had purchased the ring just two days prior,” he reminded me what Captain Mathison had shared with us. “That is not the act of a man who has changed his mind,” he added.
That dark gaze met mine. For a moment it seemed we were no longer speaking of the case. I went to the side table and refilled his glass.
“What then would be the purpose for someone to murder her? And what about the photographs?”
“The first one might have been a warning,” he replied.
“And the second photograph?” I asked. “What reason would someone have to take it and send it to the family? A warning? How could it be a warning when the young woman was already dead?”
“You’re forgetting the note that was sent with it,” he reminded me.
And then there were three…
I hadn’t forgotten. “You believe there will be more.”
“The girl’s murder was not the act of a spurned lover. And by that note, it was not random,” Brodie replied.
A sudden chill ran down my spine with thoughts of the Whitechapel murders. As much as the police had been able to determine, they were thought to be the acts of some deranged person against prostitutes in the East End. No one had as yet been arrested according to the daily newspapers.
But this, a murder of a young woman in a far different part of London? And that note that had been sent with that second photograph that there might be more?
It most certainly did seem that Amelia Mainwaring’s death was not due to a broken affair, but something far more ominous.
The conversation ended as Mrs. Ryan appeared at the entrance to the parlor.
“Excuse me. The driver you requested has arrived, Mr. Brodie” she announced.
Requested?
I tried to ignore the disappointment as Brodie tossed back the contents of the tumbler and set it on the table.
“Thank ye kindly, Mrs. Ryan, and for supper as well,” he replied.
“Good evening, then, Mr. Brodie. And this for Mr. Cavendish,” she added, handing him a small paperboard box of the sort used in the bakery shops.
He thanked her once more as he went to the entrance and retrieved his coat. He tucked the slender box that undoubtedly held some of her cherry chip cake inside the large pocket of his coat.
“The constables on the watch that serve Hyde Park might have seen something that night that could be useful,” he commented. “I will have Dooley make inquiries.”
Mr. Dooley had served with Brodie when they were both with the MP and had assisted in our inquiries in the past.
It was a place start.
At a glance through the entry windows, I saw the rain that had threatened earlier had set in and was now coming down quite heavily. The driver with his rig on the curb huddled atop the coach.
“The photographs might reveal something as well,” he continued in that logical, very circumspect way as he pulled on his gloves. “It’s important to find out who took them.”
