Even though it was later in the day, we agreed to meet at the old Scotland Yard that afternoon, arrangements having been made by the family to have Charlotte’s body removed to a private location the following day.
“I know you have been acquainted with Mr. Brimley for some time,” I commented after we found a cab and gave the driver the location of the old Scotland Yard. “But it has occurred to methat he does seem to acquire great satisfaction in viewing dead bodies.”
“Just as ye seem to have a penchant for adventures, no matter where it takes ye?” Brodie suggested. “Museums, hiding out in coffins, trapped in the old city beneath Edinburgh, or perhaps the Greek Isles?”
I did see his point, although I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that I had a distinct dislike for rummaging around in musty museums or coffins, and I had to admit that I was concerned that I might not make it out of the caverns below Edinburgh alive. As for the Greek Isles?
That was an adventure all by itself. I was eighteen years old at the time, off on my first adventure. My guide had suggested that I might like to visit Crete rather than trudging along with my travel group to more ruins. And…
It was the ‘and’ part—a dark-eyed stranger with that thick mane of hair, older than the guide, who was quite enthusiastic about leading me astray.
I could have pointed all of that out, including the part that he was obviously to blame for. However, that was another adventure to come, or several of them as it had turned out. And now…
We arrived at the old Scotland Yard with what was referred to as the ‘holding rooms’ on the ground floor at the back of the building where there was access for the police vans to drop off the latest collection of bodies. It was just across from the ‘yard,’ where horses were still kept in spite of the new motorized inventions that had begun to appear on the streets of London.
Brodie stepped down from the cab, then assisted me and paid the driver. We went to the back entrance, where Brodie informed the constable on duty that Mr. Dooley had arranged for us to visit the morgue.
The man checked a clipboard with papers then nodded.
“There will be another man joining us,” Brodie told him. “By the name of Brimley.”
“Right you are, guv’ner. And may I say it’s good to see you again, Mr. Brodie.”
He nodded in acknowledgement. “And yerself as well, Mr. Macky.”
With that we stepped into that imposing building where Brodie had once been charged with murder and imprisoned.
I sensed rather than heard the deep breath he took and could only imagine his thoughts at that memory. I reached out and wrapped my hand around his.
“Let us see what we can learn to find Charlotte Mallory’s murderer.”
That dark gaze met mine, lines of anger easing from his face. His hand tightened on mine.
“Aye.”
Four
Mr. Brimleypromptly arrived and joined us, along with the police surgeon who had been made aware of our arrival, as we entered that room where bodies were taken, usually an assortment of those found in the river for one reason or another—murder or suicide. It was not uncommon.
There were only two additional tables with sheets drawn over this late afternoon. However, the night awaited.
The surgeon who usually inspected the bodies brought there determined the cause of death, if that was possible, and then released them, identities unknown most usually, for burial in the pauper’s graveyard. On other more rare occasions, as in the case of Charlotte Mallory’s body, they were held for families to make the necessary arrangements.
Arrangements. Now there was a polite word that I thought was most odd. It usually referred to floral arrangements, enormous bouquets of hydrangeas that the staff at Sussex Square spread about the manor, or other bouquets that James Warren, my sister’s fiancé, had sent her.
It had a different meaning here. How bodies were to be dispensed, tagged like a sack of potatoes, thrown into the back of a wagon or funeral van as the case may be, then carted off.
From a family of some position, Charlotte Mallory’s body would no doubt be given all due respect. Most probably in the front parlor of the family residence at Knightsbridge for viewing. A tasteless ‘arrangement’ with friends and family passing by.
Be over and done with it, to my way of thinking as I recalled my own preference for a Viking send-off.
“Ye are not a Viking,” Brodie had pointed out when we had that particular previous discussion.
“Nevertheless,” I told him. “I’ll hold you to that.”
He had looked at me with more than a little amusement. “I suppose with that red hair, ye might have a bit of Viking blood. I’ll have to remember that, given the knife ye carry. However, ye will undoubtedly outlive me as well as everyone around ye. After all yer great-aunt is eighty-five years old.”
She had left specific instructions in that regard as well, my sister declaring at the time that we were both heathens.
