He had medical experience and pointed out the injuries that had caused Eleanor’s death, the bruising about the neck as in the other murders. However, there were no traces of the crystals Brodie had found at the location where the body was found.
“Was she perhaps wearing any other garments?” Brodie asked. “A neck scarf or shawl perhaps?”
There was a shawl, also black, that had been neatly tucked into a bag to be returned to Sir William and Lady Strachan.
Brodie examined it. I knew, of course, what he was looking for.
Due to the handling of the shawl it was impossible to determine if there was any trace of those crystals on the wool fabric. He then overturned the bag on a nearby steel cart, and shook it. A faint dusting of white crystals fell to the top of the cart.
“I would appreciate if you could tell us what those crystals are, sir,” Brodie asked of the owner. “And we will wait.”
The result was not surprising. It was the same as in the other two murders. Someone was drugging the victims with ether, before the murder was committed. Was it supposed to be some act of mercy?
The previous cases I had participated in had been equally brutal, but this new aspect was disturbing.
What did it mean?
“It’s very much like the Whitechapel murders, except it’s as if the murderer doesn’t want to cause them any pain.”
I thought of those young women. There had undoubtedly been those last moments of confusion, then fear before the drug took effect.
“Who would do such a thing?”
It was a question for which there was not yet an answer.
The weather matched my mood after we left. It seemed that we were chasing down a serial murderer.
There was rail service on a spur connecting the southwest of central London to Putney, that connected with the small rural station at the town of Wimbledon.
We arrived late of the afternoon, then hired a driver to take us out to the Wimbledon Tennis Club where that photograph had been taken.
The afternoon was dreary and soggy. This time of year there were no tournaments and the grass tennis courts had turned brown with the change of seasons.
A light glowed from the brick cottage, that presently served as the clubhouse, where Sir William indicated Mr. Hughson lived.
Brodie deployed his umbrella and held it over me as we approached the cottage. The door was answered by Mrs. Hughson.
We explained that we were there on behalf of Sir William and she directed us to a workshop behind the cottage.
Brodie introduced us and explained that there had been a situation, and Sir William had indicated that he might be able to answer some questions for us.
Mr. Hughson was a stout, energetic man, frustrated by the weather when he needed to keep the courts groomed for a men’s competition that was to be held the following week.
Mrs. Hughson provided coffee, which was much appreciated as I warmed my hands, and then her husband took us on a tour of thecottage.
It was small but with a large receiving room where the business of the tennis club was conducted, a counter with a board on the wall behind where it appeared the last tournament had been announced.
There was also a table with architectural plans laid out and Mr. Hughson explained the expansion that the directors hoped for.
The present half-dozen courts would be expanded at least twice that much more. But he was obviously most excited for the new clubhouse that had been designed.
The reception room also included a dedication wall with portraits of the founding members of the Wimbledon Club including Sir William Strachan, as well as photographs from competitions that had been held there, and that original photograph of the club members, including the women’s team after their first tournament the year before.
“Most interesting,” I commented as I studied the photograph. “I understand there were supposed to be five women in the competition, but I only see four.”
“You are well informed, Miss Forsythe.”
“An acquaintance of Miss Pemberton,” I replied.
