And then there was the other sort of anger, as now. He was furious and made no attempt to hide it. I had experienced that as well on a few occasions, admittedly when I had perhaps, and I emphasize the word perhaps, given him some reason.
“I was at the museum.” Not exactly a lie as far as it went. “And then I had a brief encounter with Jefferson Talbot, and one thing led to another.”
I didn’t explain thatone thing or another. Now was probably not the best time to explain all of it. Nor was it the first time that I had been out and about on a case. Always best to pick my moments.
Unsettling as my meeting with Talbot had been, it did seem that Brodie’s reaction was a bit over the top.
He sat at the desk, chin propped on his hand. I felt that dark gaze on me that saw far too much as I removed my coat and hung it on the coat stand then went to the stove.
“Excellent, there’s coffee,” I commented in an attempt to redirect the conversation. “It is quite cold outside.”
“Aye.” A single response, not a good indication.
I poured myself a cup of coffee. It looked strong, more than strong, the sort my friend Templeton described might stand up a spoon— something she had heard on her travels to the United States.
This certainly did seem that it could. I needed that.
I turned, cup in hand. That dark gaze was still fastened on me. That other sort of anger was there— intense, thoughts hidden, and far too quiet.
“The information from the curator at the museum was most informative,” I began. “The man is quite knowledgeable. He has a background in photography as well.” I continued on with what Mr. Whitby had explained.
“According to him, most photographers have a particular style that might be identified, very much like a calling card.”
The coffee was hot and fortifying. I was also starving, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. However, it seemed that Brodie had been warming himself with a bit of Old Lodge whisky.
“It is often quite easy to identify a particular photographer once one is familiar with their work.”
“And yerencounterwith Mr. Talbot?”
Brodie emphasized each word, most particularly the wordencounter, as if I had just happened to see Talbot on the street.
He didn’t believe it for a moment. That was the problem with knowing me quite well.
As I also knew him? That little voice whispered.
That was beside the point.
“Informative, as well,” I replied. That was all quite true as well. “The man is very talented. It seems that he’s working on a particular project.”
I thought it best that I didn’t go into details on how I knew that.
“I was most interested in his thoughts about the photographer who took the photos of Amelia Mainwaring and Catherine Thorpe. If he saw something in them that might indicate who had taken them.”
“Did he?”
“There was a moment when I thought perhaps he had, but he refused to reveal what he was thinking…”
Brodie leaned across the desk and handed me a copy of the Times daily. It was the late edition from just a few hours earlier.
There was a photograph just below the title block on the front page. It was vivid and startling, the headline across the top equally shocking.
“There’s been another murder.”
Fourteen
The victim’sname was Eleanor Strachan, of the Strachan-Ward family.
Her father, Sir William Strachan, had attended Sandhurst, retired from the military, and had been appointed head of the War Office by the Queen. He was also a founding member of the Carlisle Sporting Club, and was on the board of the Wimbledon Racquet Club.
