Fifteen
Anne Pemberton,the fourth young woman in the photograph, lived within walking distance of the Strachan residence at Portman Square. Sir William put through a telephone call of introduction for us.
The Pembertons had learned about Eleanor’s murder in the same manner as Sir William, in the daily when it was delivered. They were shocked, while Anne was devastated at the loss of her friend.
She was taller than the other young women in that photograph with dark hair, and green eyes. I could see the athleticism in the way she carried herself as she stood when we arrived.
We asked the same questions we had asked before of each of the families— had there been any threats, had anyone approached Anne in a threatening manner, had she noticed anyone about whom she didn’t know, and had the family received any strange messages?
The answer in each instance was the same. No.
“Who would want to do such a thing?” Anne asked.
She refused to sit, instead pacing across the front parlor with a restless energy that I could imagine on a tennis court. And then there was the anger that came with it.
“Ye attended a party with Miss Strachan?” Brodie inquired.
“Yes,” she replied. “Last evening. It was at a mutual friend’s residence.” She looked over at Brodie.
“Do you think it might have been someone at the party?”
“We need to look at every possibility,” I explained. “Did you notice anyone you weren’t familiar with? Was there any sort of disagreement among any of the guests?”
“The people there were from our circle of friends and from my brother’s school. However, everyone was in costume,” she added. “I suppose it would have been possible for someone to slip in unnoticed.”
She had held up well until then. Now there were tears.
“Poor, dear Eleanor,” she whispered. She gathered herself.
“We returned together from the party. Then, I walked on, as we have dozens of times since we live only a short distance apart. To think that someone…”
I knew what she was thinking, that it would have been quite easy for someone unknown to be waiting just there. I knew it could easily have been either one of them, or possibly both.
“I know this is a difficult time,” Brodie sympathized. “However, I suggest that ye take all precautions whenever ye leave the house until this matter is settled. It would be best,” he continued, “that ye do not go out alone. For whatever reason, it seems that the young ladies in that photograph have drawn this person’s attention.”
There was no need for him to explain the rest of it— that Anne Pemberton might well now be the next target for the murderer.
“Lady Strachan remembered there were to be five young ladies in the photograph that day,” I then mentioned something she had told us. “Would you know who that was? The young woman and her family will need to be warned as well until we find whoever is doing this.”
Anne shook her head. “There were several players there that day, over a year ago now. It was an exhibition of sorts with several rounds in a tournament.”
“The purpose was to promote the planned expansion at Wimbledon,” Mr. Pemberton added. “The sport has grown, particularly for young women, and the directors were hopeful to encourage investors.”
“Ye are one of the directors, sir?” Brodie asked.
“Yes, myself and three others, including Sir William Strachan, of course.”
We thanked the Pembertons for their time. As we rose to leave, Anne Pemberton reached out.
“You will find who did this?” she asked and I saw that strength there as well as felt it in the hand on my arm.
“Most certainly,” I replied.
After leaving Portman Square, Brodie directed our driver to the private morgue where Eleanor Strachan’s body had been taken.
This sad experience was becoming far too familiar.
She still wore the costume she had worn to the All Hallows party the previous evening, her delicate features in contrast to the black gown. The owner of the morgue had been contacted by Sir William and advised that we would be calling on him.
