I returned to the office on the Strand to discover that Brodie had returned as well.
He had met earlier with the two constables who first arrived outside the print shop when Charlotte Mallory’s body was discovered.
Someone, perhaps Mr. Cavendish, had brought luncheon from the Public House across the Strand. Brodie, dear man, had placed the platter atop the coal stove to keep it warm.
It was their version of workingman’s stew, chunks of meat and potatoes with a portion of carrots and celery pieces. The sort of meal that was fairly inexpensive and would stick to a man’s or woman’s bones through the rest of the day, not to mention that it warmed one on a rainy, cold day.
I retrieved the rose, much the worse for wear, and placed it in a pitcher of water. Brodie looked up from the desk and frowned.
“A token of affection?”
“It was found at the curb where Charlotte Mallory was murdered. According to the man and woman who found her, it was lying across her body. Why would someone do that?”
“Perhaps she had it with her.”
“Mr. Adams didn’t recall it being with her when she arrived at the shop.”
I set the pitcher on the desk then went to the coal stove.
“Oh, bless Mr. Cavendish. I’m starving.”
“Not the Mudger. I brought it back from the Public House. The damned hound almost took my leg off for it.”
“That will teach you to next time bring a cake or biscuit for him.”
I smiled as I brought the plate to the desk and sat across from him. “It serves you right for speaking badly of him. He does have a particular liking for the stew from the Public House.”
“He has a particular liking for anything that is not moving,” Brodie replied.
It was a frequent comment.
“What else were you able to learn from the printer?”
“It appears there was nothing unusual about her visit. She wasn’t upset nor did she indicate that she was fearful of anything. She paid for her print order—invitations for the wedding, then left. It was just after that the man and woman made him aware that something had happened.”
“She gave no indication of any difficulty?”
“None, so it would seem that the attack might have been the first encounter,” I replied. “I then paid a visit to Mr. Brimley, most interesting.”
Brodie looked up from a piece of paper he had been studying.
“Aye?”
“The fiber that he found under Charlotte Mallory’s fingernail was most distinctive.”
He frowned. “Distinctive?”
“A very fine, dark blue worsted wool, along with silk thread at one end. As if Charlotte might have clutched at the man’s sleeve.”
And not at all what I had first thought, that this crime might have been the sort committed by the Whitechapel murderer.
“That could be useful,” Brodie admitted.
I angled a glance down at the paper in front of him. “What have you there?”
“The police report from the night of the murder.”
At my look of surprise, he explained. “Mr. Dooley made a copy of the report. His handwriting is… Let us just say that it’s a wonder he made inspector.”
