“It is possible that piece of thread might tell us something,” I replied. “Or perhaps it’s nothing more than a thread from her gown.” I continued to stare at the board.
“There is not much to go on. I suppose it could be useful to visit the print shop where she was found. It does appear from what we saw at the holding facility that Mr. Burke is not as well informed as he believes he is.”
And not the first time, I thought to myself. A case of dubious journalistic skill for sensationalism.
“She was to be married. I wonder if her fiancé might know of anything in the matter,” I added.
“It might be useful to speak with him,” he agreed. “As they were not yet married, he will not be directly involved in the final arrangements.” He frowned.
“What is it?”
That dark gaze studied me. “I know yer feelings in such things, to be sent off in a burning boat.”
I sensed an objection that he hadn’t spoken of before.
“However, perhaps there is something comforting to have a place to go, to be with them for a time.”
I was fairly certain I knew where this came from. His mother had been placed in one of dozens unmarked graves at the edge of Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh. There was no way to know precisely where she had been buried, no headstone to mark the spot.
He had gone there and then left, unable to mourn her as he would have liked, to have finally been able to tell her—if one believed in such a thing—that he had found the man who killed her.
I laid the chalk on the rail at the bottom of the chalkboard, then went to where he sat across from the desk.
I was nine years when my mother died. My memories of her were filled with love, even though there was sadness as well. I could not say the same of my father. There were too many difficult memories of him.
They were both buried in the Forsythe family crypt. I refused to go there, although I knew that my sister had.
She was considerably younger than I, and her memories of that time were vague, if at all. She was not the one who found our father in the stables where he had taken his own life, and had almost no memory of him except a shadowy figure who was rarely present and then suddenly gone.
I did understand that going to the place where they were buried provided some measure of comfort for her. For myself, my memories of our mother were my comfort unlike those last memories of our father. But I knew it was different for Brodie.
He had never known his father. As for his mother? It was, I supposed, bittersweet. She had died quite young and tragically murdered. He had finally been able to find the one responsible, but I knew that made the loss no less painful, and then not even to have a marker at her grave…
“I think it’s not where a person is buried,” I told him, “but the memory you have of them, that is more comforting. Something they always use to tell you…”
“You are my brave, beautiful girl. You must be brave for your sister.”My own mother had told me more than once.
“There when it was dark,” I pulled another memory up. “And it seemed there were creatures in the shadows. Or the touch of her hand when she smoothed your hair back.” I could imagine it with that thick mane of dark hair as I brushed it back.
“There inside you where no one can ever take it away.”
He took my hand then and kissed it, that dark gaze fastened on me.
“As ye are inside me now.”
We didn’t return to Mayfair that night. Instead, we ate supper at the public house as we had so many times. I then took a box with supper back to the office for Mr. Cavendish and Rupert the hound.
Afterward, I placed a call to Sussex Square and spoke with Lily. I informed her that we had begun our inquiries as promised, with a reminder that clues often led to other clues and we would be proceeding in the morning. An inquiry case was not something that resolved overnight.
“How is she?” Brodie asked.
“Impatient. She wants answers, and we don’t have any yet.”
I caught the look he gave me. “That sounds familiar.”
“I want to speak with Burke, and then pay a visit to the print shop.”
“Ye dinna trust the newspaper man?”
