Then I set off, the tin with the meat pie in one hand, Templeton’s carpet bag—somewhat heavier with the bottle of Old Lodge whisky in it—over my shoulder, and the hound at my side. It occurred to me that we were an odd sight, as I watched the street and the alcoves near the front of shops as I crossed the Strand.
Drury Lane was not far; I could have easily walked there. However, something Brodie had taught me came to mind, that it was best to let others think one thing while doing something different.
Case in point, we had once hired a cab and had the driver deliver us to one location, then found a second driver to take us to our intended destination, thereby eluding anyonewho might have followed. And I wanted to make certain we were not followed, even though I was confident Rupert would have alerted me to anyone who lingered, followed, or suddenly approached.
I waved down a cab and we climbed aboard. I had the driver let us off several blocks away, then secured another cab and had the driver take us to the theater, going back round the way we had just come.
Those attending the evening performance had begun to gather. I then slipped through the crowd, continued down the street to Drury Lane, then circled round to the back of the building where Templeton’s friend Sophie had her flat.
With Rupert beside me, I made my way through the back entrance to the flat where the young actress had lived before fleeing her lover.
I turned on the electric, a single fixture glowing on the wall beside the door. The flat was small, with a bedroom off the main room, an overstuffed chair, quite worn in several places, a coal stove, and a small table and chairs. I put the tin with the supper I had not eaten in the food box on the counter.
A shadow suddenly scurried away, the remnants of a moldy loaf of bread scattered about. I looked down at Rupert, who sat on the rug.
“I do expect you to take care of that sort of thing,” I informed him. He merely lay down and stared up at me with large soulful eyes that seemed to say that rats were not his favorite fare.
The flat was quite cold. I set pieces of coal in the stove and lit the fire. It gradually grew, glowing across the rough wood floor and a simple but adequate rug, illuminating a half-dozen or more handbills tacked to the wall announcing forthcoming plays.
A pull-cord to a light fixture over the table, hung over a vase of crumbling roses. No doubt remnants of that marriage proposal.
The bedroom was nothing more than a narrow bed pushed against the wall with a small table and washstand. More handbills and posters decorated the walls, including one that featured Templeton. Bedcovers had been neatly folded. It seemed that Sophie was confident she wouldn’t need them.
With a thought to the other occupant of the flat that I had discovered fleeing the breadbox, I did wonder if there might be other occupants in the bed. It was not uncommon in parts of London.
Until I had the opportunity to make further inspections, the overstuffed chair in the outer room would have to do.
I made notes in my notebook, including the hound’s encounter with Abberline’s constable the night before, and the fact that the police had come calling at both the office and the town house.
I then put more coal on the fire, and checked that the lock on the door was secure. Pouring myself a bit of my aunt’s very fine whisky, I settled myself in that chair before the coal stove, with Rupert at my feet.
Unfortunately, sleep was long in coming, even with a second dram of whisky. It was well past midnight when I last checked the watch pinned to my shirtwaist, questions stirring my thoughts.
Who was murdered ten years earlier? Who was the man who had supported Ellie Sutton for a while? Someone high-placed? Whom had she seen the night that she was forced to leave London? Supposedly she’d fled a threat? But from whom?
I hoped to learn some of the answers the next morning.
Mayfair
The night air was cold, mist slipping along the rooftops and across the sidewalks.
No light shone from inside the town house—no late fire gleaming from the fireplace in the front parlor, no light spilling out from the tall windows that lined the street.
Nor had there been anyone at the office on the Strand, although there were signs someone had been—the splintered wood around the door frame, a new lock, and other things seen through the glass panes in that door—files stacked atop the desk, the chalkboard wiped clean.
And below? Neither the Mudger, nor the hound. Both were gone.
Brodie made his way down from the office, and then to Mayfair.
It was the same, not even a light at the servants’ entrance.
Slipping through the shadows, he caught a sudden movement across the way just beyond the circle of light from the street lamp.
Someone returning from a late-night engagement? Perhaps one of the residents out for a walk? Or, someone else…?
Then the flare of a match, followed by a stream of cigarette smoke in the cold night air, and a shadow. A man, stocky, hiding there, watching the street. Watching the town house?
The thought went no further than the obvious—Abberline!
