I had explained to Geoffrey Adams that Brodie and I were making private inquiries on behalf of a client regarding Charlotte Mallory’s murder, and asked if I might have the rose.
I had no idea what it meant, if anything, yet the circumstances seemed most curious. It now sat on the desk across from my usual place opposite Brodie when he was there.
It was badly wilted and much the worse for having been tossed aside, drooping over the top of a glass jar that had once held a healing salve that Mr. Brimley had provided for Brodie during one of our inquiries.
I stared at the chalkboard where I had made notes of my visit with Mr. Adams. There were more questions than answers along with the particularly nagging question, who would want to harm a young woman from a prominent family?
And not for the usual reasons that we encountered in other inquiry cases. Most particularly in a part of the city that was heavily patrolled by the MET. It made no sense, but then as I had learned, murder rarely did.
As I had discovered in the past it was usually not random. There was always a reason behind such a horrible act. It was merely a matter of finding what that reason was, and the person who had committed it.
Greed? Passion?
It seemed that neither of those were the reason in Charlotte Mallory’s case. According to the police surgeon’s examination, there was no intimate violation. And she still had her handbag with a good number of coins in it. The motive obviously was not robbery.
What then had been the reason for such a heinous crime?
Motive, means, opportunity.
Two were obvious. The opportunity had been outside the print shop, where Charlotte Mallory had gone unescorted. The means had been that single knife wound. That brought me back to the question of motive.
I had learned from Brodie that it was a matter of digging deeper, following even the most obscure or seemingly unimportant piece of information.
He had not returned since our parting, there was no note left about as had become his habit when he went off to follow up on some other bit of information.
Therefore, I decided to call on Mr. Brimley and see if he was able to learn anything from that cloth fiber he had found under Charlotte’s fingernail.
In turn, I left a note for Brodie—something that was quite foreign to me, yet something I discovered that I liked very much.
He had explained it,“When ye go off on yer own, a simple note would do. If ye get into a stramash, then I can help ye, lass.”
I had never before felt the need to leave a note with anyone, except for my great-aunt. I respected her, it was as simple as that.
However, I did have to admit that when making our inquiries on behalf of a client, even if that client was Lily, things often took an unexpected turn. In the past I had found myself in a difficulty and only by good fortune, and perseverance on Brodie’s part, had I escaped relatively unscathed.
Well, there was that one incident in our first inquiry when I had been shot. I did have to admit that was not a pleasant experience. And now?
As we were both learning what this new relationship between us meant, I realized that he was right about certain things. Notthat I would have admitted to all of them. However, leaving a note seemed a small concession to my previous way of doing things. And he had seemed most accommodating when I pointed out that he might do the same.
I locked the door behind me as I set off. On the street below the office, Mr. Cavendish summoned a driver for me.
“When you have time, miss, there is a matter I would like to discuss with you,” he said as a driver circled round his hansom cab from across the street, then angled his rig through the usual midday traffic to pull alongside the curb.
The request seemed somewhat unusual and he seemed almost...shy about it. And that was not a word I would usually think of regarding Mr. Cavendish.
“Of course. Is there some difficulty?” I asked.
“No, not at all,” he assured. “It is simply a matter I need some assistance with… regarding a lady, you see.”
A lady? I didn’t actually see what it was, but I liked Mr. Cavendish, née the Mudger, very much. He had obviously led an adventurous life, now relegated to that platform, but with a keen sense of loyalty to Brodie and me. Not to mention Rupert the hound. I was happy to assist with something that seemed important.
“It can wait,” he said then. “You’re obviously off and about on some matter of importance.”
“When I return?” I suggested.
He nodded and rolled back from the edge of the curb as I climbed into the cab.
Mr. Brimley’s shop was just up from the docks in one of the poorest parts of the East End. There he dispensed medications for ailments, set broken bones, and assisted women ‘in need.’
