“Lady Forsythe.” I was greeted as Burke rose from behind a desk that at a glance was buried in hand-written notes he had apparently dashed off, possibly about a forthcoming story, a few odd copies of other newspapers—the competition, no doubt—and a badly stained coffee cup.
He was shorter than I remembered from a past encounter, with a short coat over a shirt and brocade vest that I also remembered and that was glaringly out of place.
And his greeting was gratuitous. He had written previously with obvious disdain for me upon the conclusion of the first case I had taken with Brodie:
‘Lady Forsythe has now ventured into the world of crime. Something to amuse herself, no doubt. One can only hope that she won’t muddy her white gloves.’
I didn’t give a fig about any of that. I accepted Burke for the weasel that he was. Still, I might learn something that could be useful.
“And how is former detective Angus Brodie this fine spring morning?”
I smiled past the colorful curse I would have preferred to use as I took the chair across the desk from him.
“Someone with your vast resources would know better than myself,” I replied.
“And always a pleasure to see you,” he commented with a self-satisfied expression. “But alas I have no word on his whereabouts. And he is most resourceful.” That expression sharpened. “I have no information that I can share that would be useful.”
I thought of the revolver that I now carried. I suppose being arrested for murder might not be useful to the situation.
Where bantering caustic innuendos back and forth only proved how despicable the man was, perhaps a bit of flattery might work. The man was known to be quite impressed with himself and his journalistic abilities.
“I read your articles regarding the murder of Stephen Matthews ten years ago.”
“Looking for material for a new novel, perhaps?” he asked, in that irritating nasal tone, as if the words were stuffed up his nose.
“It did seem as if Chief Inspector Abberline was quite determined to ignore information that you felt might be important,” I continued.
He returned to his chair at the desk. “I am aware of the difficulty between Abberline and Angus Brodie in the matter. And I believe that you have had some disagreement with the Chief Inspector in the past as well, regarding your sister’s disappearance.” He sat back at his chair and studied me.
“I believe that I am not speaking out of turn when I say the man is the epitome of a fool. He is concerned only with feathering his own nest and perhaps willing to overlook certain facts, as he’s demonstrated on more than one occasion.”
I was forced to agree with him on that. “Indeed,” I replied.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit then, Lady Forsythe?”
I refused to let him goad me into a confrontation when I would have liked to drop him to the floor.
“In a follow-up article that you wrote after the murder at the Clarendon Club, you mentioned a comment made by one of the staff. That someone was seen leaving the club that night just before the body of Stephen Matthews was found,” I began. “And then in subsequent issues of the newspaper, there was no furthermention. Did you ever learn who that might have been? It does seem that it might have been important.”
His gaze narrowed. “Very observant, Lady Forsythe. I believe that you’re the first person who noticed that.”
His use of my title had grown irritating, particularly since he had written several articles under anom de plumefor the newspaper—satire it was called—that were highly critical of anyone with a title and their affectations of importance. Affectations which I would have informed him that I did not have.
That would have to wait for another day. There were far more important matters at hand.
Burke, being the clever, despicable sort, might respond to something offered that would be to his advantage.
And I very much wanted the name of the club employee who had seen that person leaving just before Matthews’ murder was discovered.
“That information might have been helpful in finding the murderer,” I continued. “A potential coup for yourself, if you were able to provide the name from your source.”
“It seems that Ellie Sutton was the only one who knew who the murderer was. And now the poor soul is dead,” he added.
“It’s possible that this staff member might have seen her killer. But of course, Angus Brodie was there as well. And now the boy has gone missing,” he continued. “It seems that once more Brodie is in the middle of it, and may very well find himself charged with murder. There was a witness of course.”
“Merely someone who saw him leave with the boy.” I reminded him of what he had already written about in the daily. “You know as well as I, that does not make Brodie the murderer.”
“Most interesting,” he replied then. “I do understand your professional interest in this, considering your collaboration onpast cases. I wonder if there is another reason, Lady Forsythe, something that my readers would be interested in perhaps?”
