“Of course,” he said with a gentle smile. “I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.”
Brodie still had not wakened when we left the‘commissary,’as it was called. Another name borrowed from the military.
Dr. Watson explained that many things at the Agency had been set up in military fashion.
“You can take a man out of the war, but not the war out of the man?” I commented.
“That is quite good, Miss Forsythe,” he complimented.
Alex and Lily had both arrived at the Tower offices when I returned to Alex’s office.
He had decided to plot a time line of the events in the case of Ellie Sutton’s murder. He then added a similar timeline for that ten-year-old murder of Stephen Matthews, while Lily set about transcribing my notes into what she referred to as “a case file that was required by Sir Avery.” It included my earlier notes and the more recent ones from the visit Munro and I had with Mr. Iverson.
Munro had returned as well, with the item I had asked him to bring.
It was very nearly eleven o’clock in the morning when I placed a telephone call to the Matthews residence in Kent, to inquire if Mrs. Matthews was available. I was informed that she had left some time earlier.
“She’s gone to the florist’s shop, then Highgate, the same as every week,” her housekeeper added. “She won’t return for several hours. Do you care to leave a message?”
Highgate.
I declined by simply saying that I would call again another time.
According to the information Lucy found at the registrar’s office, Stephen Matthews was buried at the western cemetery there, I thought as the telephone call ended.
And Mrs. Matthews went there ‘every week,’according to her housekeeper.
I wanted very much to speak with Stephen Matthews’ mother, yet hesitated to go to Highgate, and intrude on what I could only assume was something very emotional for her.
However, a young woman was dead, a small boy orphaned, and Brodie’s life very much hung in the balance.
I was determined to learn not only who was behind this, but the reason. And time was critical, with the murderer still unknown and still out there.
Highgate Cemetery was in the north of London.
Munro nodded when I informed him that I wanted to go there, and the reason.
“Aye, but ye’ll not go alone.”
It was midafternoon when Mr. Hastings guided the team through the arched stone entrance of Highgate. We drove down an avenue with trees and shrubs past Egyptian sepulchers, mausoleums, and Gothic tombs, then arrived at a small stone building where a black hearse had just departed.
It disappeared along an adjacent pathway, with several coaches following behind. A small man who looked much like a troll that had stepped out from under a rock turned and nodded a greeting.
Munro explained that we were looking for a site where another individual was buried.
“Stephen Matthews.” I gave him the name.
“Matthews?” he replied, then his expression changed. “Ah, the grey lady. Comes here every week. Always dressed the same in a grey gown. Lewiston is the family name.”
He then gave directions for us to continue along the path, then turn at the carriage path that had a tall oak tree with a weeping angel at the base. The Lewiston family plot and crypt were only a short distance on, a carved wood sign with the family name beside the main path.
With those directions, Mr. Hastings proceeded to guide the team to the area the little man had indicated.
“I don’t much like these places,” Munro commented.
I naturally had my own opinion of them—a boat, a torch, and a Viking sendoff seemed far more appealing.
Still, there was something peaceful about Highgate, with its winding carriageway and overhanging trees, much like a medieval forest.
