The shop just off Oxford Street was well known around London as a place where one might find fine stationary and also have invitations and announcements printed. A royal warrant was in the bow window that fronted the street, a clerk looking up as I entered the shop.
I knew it well from having ordered invitations for my great-aunt’s eighty-fifth birthday celebration. The main shop was on the ground floor with the presses, cartographers, and artists that the owner retained on the second floor above.
The owner of the shop was Hiram Adams. I was greeted by his son Geoffrey, whom I remembered from the year before.
“Lady Forsythe. It is a pleasure to see you again. You’re here regarding Lady Lenore’s invitations… They are not quite ready.”
Ah, the wedding, full steam ahead.
“Not this morning. Either she or Lady Montgomery will make arrangements to have them delivered.”
“Of course. How may we serve you today?”
I explained the reason I was there, mindful of the fact that some people can be put off by inquiries made by a woman about things such as murder, something I had encountered from time to time. I had simply learned to ignore questions from those I spoke with, and only found it necessary to mention Brodie on a handful of occasions. The title I had the unfortunate luck to be born with, courtesy of my father, very often opened doors that not even Brodie could have opened short of picking a lock.
As it was, I simply explained that Mr. Brodie and I were making private inquiries on behalf of a client in the matter. That was usually enough.
“I understand,” Geoffrey Adams replied. “Dreadful business and in front of the shop. Such a tragedy.”
He was about to close for the day when he heard a woman scream and discovered that Miss Mallory had been attacked in front of the shop. He ran out and saw the man and woman who had found her body.
“Did you recognize them?” I asked in the chance that, if so, I might be able to question them about what they had seen.
“Not at all. It seems they were passing by and found the young woman.”
What could he tell me about what he saw then? On the street? Perhaps someone rapidly leaving the area afoot, or by carriage?
“The man from the newspaper asked the same questions,” he replied, no doubt referring to Theodolphus Burke. “I didn’t see anything before it all happened. I had returned to the back to retrieve an order for another customer. There was just that poor young woman who had just picked up her order here—Miss Mallory. Wedding invitations, so very tragic.”
“Did she mention any difficulty? An encounter on the street before arriving that might have bothered her?” I then inquired.
“It was the usual conversation when a customer picks up an order,” Geoffrey Adams replied. “She seemed very pleased with the invitations when I showed them to her. She paid for them. Then she was on her way to post a letter across the way. She asked if the office was still open. There was something in her manner…” He shook his head.
“Was there anything else?” I asked.
He shook his head. “The constables were here then, taking care of the body and asking questions for their report. There wasn’t much that I could tell them, as I was in the back of the shop when the alarm went out and hadn’t seen anything.”
“You said there was something in her manner when she inquired about the post office hours. Did she say anything about that?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
I then asked if there was anything else that he remembered from that night, anything that might seem insignificant.
He started to shake his head once more, then stopped.
“There was this. It seemed odd afterward,” he replied as he went to a side table and returned with a slender porcelain vase with a single red rose in it.
“The woman with her husband who found Miss Mallory, said that this was lying across the body when they found her. It was in the gutter after the constables left. They didn’t seem to think it was important.”
“Did she have it with her when she came into the shop?”
He was thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t remember seeing it. I suppose it is possible that she encountered a flower seller nearby after she left. They’re usually about even late into the day.”
The way he described it, it was almost as if…
It was a morbid thought, still the fact that he didn’t recall Charlotte having the rose when she entered the shop made mequestion how she had come by it. Then the description from the man and woman who found her, that it was lying across her… As if the murderer might have placed it there?
I contemplated that possibility as I sat at the desk in the office on the Strand.
