Brodie had his name from Abberline. He had been questioned by the chief inspector’s people, but Brodie wanted to speak with him again. As I knew only too well, there was often a resentment against the Metropolitan Police.
People most often responded to Brodie’s inquiries about a certain matter where there was a suspicion against the Metropolitan Police. Through our past inquiries I had learned that it was frequently with good reason.
Brodie and I had shared supper from the Public House across the Strand along with a dram of whisky to warm the chill that seemed to have set in, one that I suspected had more to do with the sad details of the case.
Now Brodie had a fire going in the coal stove and had poured us both another dram as I stood before the chalkboard and stared at the photographs. Most particularly the photographs that had been taken earlier of each young woman.
“What is it?” Brodie asked.
It was amazing how perceptive he was, somehow sensing that I was mulling over some matter. However, I reminded myself it was one of the reasons he was most successful in our inquiry cases. There was another reason that poked its head up at me— that it might just be for other reasons as well, that had to do with our personal relationship. I chose to ignore that for the moment.
“These photographs of Amelia Mainwaring and Catherine Thorpe…”
I chose to shorten her name much of the same opinion as Brodie that two last names were quite aggravating.
“What about them?”
“They’re part of the same photograph,” I announced what I had suspected and now looked again to make certain of it.
“Yes, most definitely.”
Brodie joined me in front of the chalkboard, that gaze narrowed as he, too, stared at the photographs.
“A garden setting with trees in the background,” I recounted what Lady Mainwaring had insisted when she first sent me the photograph.
“Here and here,” I pointed out the second photograph taken of Catherine Thorpe.
“I thought it somewhat odd that the first one seemed to have been taken during the summer months, and then this one as well,” I explained. “I might never have realized it if I hadn’t seen the photograph in Amelia Mainwaring’s room!” I excitedly announced.
“The two photographs were originally part of one photograph,” I added. “You can see by the bushes here and the entrance to the small house.” I pointed out the edge of the one photograph. “And then in the background of the photograph taken of Catherine Thorpe!”
“Bushes and a house?” Brodie replied skeptically.
“There’s more,” I announced.
He looked at me with keen interest, curiosity to be certain, and something else that I liked. Some might have called it approval, but I knew that it was more.
“If you look very closely in the photograph with Catherine Thorpe you can see small flags on poles in the distance,” I explained.
“Go on,” he replied.
“If you look here you can just see the edge of a racquet in Catherine Thorpe’s hand.”
“A racquet…?” he looked at me skeptically.
“Lady Mainwaring had been certain the first photograph was taken in their private garden. However, it was now obvious that the photograph was taken in the gardens at Wimbledon, undoubtedly when the two young women were there either about to begin a game of lawn tennis or possibly had just concluded one!”
“Tennis?”
Never let it be said that Brodie used more words, when one word would do.
He did not go on and on about something as some men were wont to do, endlessly bragging or boasting about something or another— something that women were accused of. That bit of wisdom no doubt promoted by a man impressed with himself.
“That would explain the reason the first photographs seemed to have been taken in an earlier part of the year— summer perhaps as neither young woman was wearing a coat with sleeves rolled back.”
“I suppose that ye’ve been to Wimbledon?” he replied then, a full sentence.
“My sister and I were both invited to join a ladies’ club that frequently played there. She was never the athletic sort, and I could never see the purpose in chasing around fuzzy little balls.”
