What was that supposed to mean?
Upon closer inspection, I realized the photograph in my hands was not merely another casual picture taken by a friend or other acquaintance.
Amelia Mainwaring’s eyes were open staring fixedly, her head bent at an odd angle, not the usual way of someone who was possibly awaiting the arrival of an acquaintance.
In spite of the evening shadows in the photograph, a nearby street lamp revealed her expression, completely void of any emotion as she blankly stared ahead perhaps in the direction of whoever had been holding the camera.
It appeared that I was looking at the sort of photo that had become quite common among those who had lost a loved one, most particularly an infant or child, a last remembrance or keepsake of someone who had passed on.
I had always thought the gesture to be somewhat morbid and off-putting. For myself I thought it much better to remember someone as they were in life, full of energy, laughing, that sort of thing.
Admittedly, I had been accused of being cynical of such things, undoubtedly an influence after the funeral service for my father whom I had discovered dead as a child in the stables.
I had taken one look at him in his finery when he was laid out in the formal parlor of our home— soon to be taken by the bank to pay his gambling debts, and listened to the words spoken over him at the service, a pathetic contradiction to the man I had rarely seen those last months before he took his own life.
I supposed witnessing such a thing as a child did have a bearing on the way one viewed such things. However, I was not without sympathy now.
“She was found in Hyde Park near the royal fountain by police constables. According to Sir John’s man who delivered this. She was identified by a calling card in her possession and the family was contacted.”
“Oh dear,” I said as I studied the photograph.
It seemed that whoever Miss Amelia had set out to meet, or whatever reason she had gone to the park, she was in fact quite dead.
Two
The estateat Portman Square in Marylebone was a two-story brick manor in the late Georgian style with dormer windows that looked out onto the circular drive. Fanlight windows over the entrance were framed by twin columns and the estate was surrounded by an expanse of lawn and gardens.
“What do ye know about the family?” Brodie asked as we rode through the gated entrance to the manor.
“Sir John is the Deputy Governor of the Bank of England, and a distant cousin of the former foreign secretary,” I replied. “Lady Mainwaring is from the Armstrong-Burton family.” There was the faint lift of a dark brow. It obviously meant nothing to him.
“They are a longtime family in the import and export trade.”
“Are there other members in the immediate family?”
“There is a son from Sir John’s first marriage. He is away at university,” I replied, sharing what I had learned in my initial conversation with Lady Mainwaring about that first photograph.
“The young woman’s age?” Brodie then asked.
“She turned nineteen years this past summer.”
“There are obviously potential suitors,” he commented.
“She had her coming out this past April,” I added. I had also learned that from that initial conversation with Lady Mainwaring since it seemed that the photograph might have been taken as a jest or from an admirer.
“It was expected that she might become engaged at the Christmas season.”
“That could be useful,” he replied. “As well as any young men who might have been turned down,” he added. “Sir John has an important position, to be certain,” he commented thoughtfully.
I knew the direction of his thoughts. It was a position that might attract the criminal sort. A possibility of blackmail or extortion that might have gone wrong at the last minute for a man of Sir John’s position and authority?
It was Brodie’s way of thinking, looking at every aspect of an inquiry case. He called it an affliction, a natural suspicion of everyone, from his years as an inspector with the Metropolitan Police, and now in private practice.
He asked our driver to wait as we stepped down from the cab.
The doorman at the Mainwaring residence appeared as we presented ourselves at the entrance. He escorted us into the formal drawing room. There the head butler asked us to wait while he went to inform Sir John of our arrival.
The room was quite opulently appointed, as opposed to the less formal garden room where I had met with Lady Mainwaring after that first photograph was received. There was a fire in the fireplace, but it failed to warm the expansive room with cold marble floors, dark furnishings.
