“There is a reason for them as well,” he replied.
Brodie had never seemed particularly religious and as my aunt had once pointed out, he was no saint. But I was not prepared for the answer he gave.
“Aye, there’s a reason not to look away from them as well.”
“What would that be?”
“In case the Devil needs help identifying them when he comes for their soul.”
I did not specifically believe in Heaven or Hell. My spiritual education was somewhat lacking due to the circumstances of my youth and more along the lines of séances and card readings that my aunt had at Sussex Square to broaden our education.
Then of course, there was the occasional visitation by a three-hundred-year-old playwright, courtesy of my friend Templeton, that I was still inclined not to believe.
However, I was not one to leave anything to chance. I was very aware, with all my travels, there was far more that we did not know about our existence, than we did know.
Sir William’s physician was cooperative with our examination of the body of Catherine Abbington-Thorpe, most particularly after Brodie mentioned that if the good doctor had any objections he might want to discuss those with Sir Avery Stanton.
The physician’s initial hesitation immediately disappeared, if not the look he gave both of us as we stepped into his private examination room.
He provided the cause of death— strangulation, the same manner as Amelia Mainwaring, and informed that he found no other injuries.
In consideration of his somewhat reticent attitude after conducting our own examination of the body, Brodie requested the victim’s garments.
“I assure you that my examination was thorough,” the good doctor replied, quite offended I thought.
“I am certain that ye have. The request is for other reasons,” Brodie responded with a look in my direction.
“The family has agreed and provided additional clothing.”
I produced the wrapped garments at which time Dr. Higgins stepped to the door of an adjacent room and summoned an assistant, a dour woman he referred to as Miss Proctor.
She looked at both of us with an owlish expression, then nodded when the doctor informed her of our request.
Polite even in the face of disapproval or outright antagonism, Brodie thanked both Miss Proctor and the doctor for their assistance when the garments Catherine Abbington-Thorpe had worn when she was abducted and then murdered were given to us.
“How do you do it?” I asked as a driver arrived and we set off for Mr. Brimley’s shop with the clothes neatly wrapped and deposited into my travel bag.
I had seen it before on several occasions as we made our inquiries in a case. There were undoubtedly more instances that I was not aware of— the disdain of those of a certain class even in a situation where Brodie was called in to assist them in a most difficult situation.
“What is that?” he asked now as we traversed London to the East End and the chemist’s shop.
“The way he treated you. The questions he asked even after he’d been told by Sir William to cooperate with you, and the woman… As if you were some sort of criminal. I wanted to slap her in the face!”
That dark gaze found me in the gathering gloom of the late afternoon inside the coach.
“It’s not the first time,” he replied. “And, most definitely not the last.”
“I know, but you are only trying to help the family and after Sir William had made the request, the doctor still acted as if it the questions you asked were insulting.”
“That bothered ye?” Brodie asked.
“Yes!” I replied most adamantly.
“It’s because they’re afraid.”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “Afraid of what?”
“Look about ye,” he gestured to the street through the open window of the coach.
