“Let me have a go at it. I’ve had some experience… Mr. Munro’s writing leaves a great deal to the imagination.”
“Well, when ye learn things on the fly, often times with the local police after ye and no proper schoolin’, ye make do with wot ye can.”
“Your own handwriting as well?” I replied as his was no better, a surprise that he had made inspector.
“In code perhaps?”
“Ye are a cheeky lass.” He pushed the paper across the desk. “See wot ye can make of it.”
I had to agree that the writing was quite… unique. However, with past experience with Brodie’s handwriting—it did seem that he had a habit of mixing up letters, I was able to make out most of the words in the report.
“There wasn’t anything unusual noticed about the body, there were no witnesses other than the man and woman who found the body, nor from the shopkeeper. It does seem as if the murder was recent, as the body was still warm.” I looked up.
“Nothing unusual? That cannot be all… something is missing, and there is no mention of the rose.”
“Constable Dwyer is young, only in service of the MET for less than six months,” Brodie replied. “Details come with experience. I wasna able to speak with his partner as it was his day away.”
“And in the meantime, the murderer is still out there, and we have nothing to go on.”
“Not precisely.”
“Hownot precisely?”
“There is always something to be learned, even when it appears there are no clues.”
We’d had many conversations during our partnership since that first case. I was always fascinated by the way his mind worked. Of course, much of it came from his experience with the MET, previous inquiry cases, and the fact that he’d lived on the streets for a time.
“What have we learned?”
“First, the body was not disturbed other than that one wound. Second, it would seem that she didn’t fall to the sidewalk after the attack but was lowered most carefully according to what the young constable told me.” he added.
I listened fascinated.
“Then there is the flower, which was found, laid across the body, ye say. Not the manner of something simply discarded or dropped by the victim. And ye said the shopkeeper didna notice that she had it when she called at the shop for her purchase.”
And not a crime of passion, at least not in the sense of what had been proposed about the Whitechapel murders. I was fascinated, not the first time, by his observations and possible conclusions.
“It would seem that Miss Mallory was not frightened or alarmed,” he continued. “She did not cry out, and other than that fiber Mr. Brimley found, it does not appear there was a violent struggle. Then for her to be lowered to the sidewalk with the flower, almost as if…”
“As if?”
“It’s just a thought, however it’s as if she was being laid out most proper possibly for someone to take notice. Not in the usual manner I have found in the past.”
Not in the usual manner. What did that mean, I wondered? Very strange.
“It seems that the burial is to take place on Saturday.” He handed me the afternoon edition of the Times, folded to the society page with the announcement and the location of the burial, along with a poem about a parent’s remembrance of a child:
‘Too soon, sweet child, whose music touched the soul. I will listen to the morning and hold you once more.’
That did seem a bit overdone, however, I supposed each to his own. And it had mentioned Charlotte’s talent in music. I did wonder who might have written it.
Sir Mallory perhaps? From his reputation prosecuting criminals I wouldn’t have expected such flowery words. Possibly written by Charlotte’s mother?
Saturday. Four days after she was killed, the usual day of the week for those of certain status in society to be buried, and most expeditiously out of concern for disease.
Those not of a certain status were usually buried on Sunday, with unclaimed bodies either placed in a pauper’s grave or simply dropped into the Thames. An unpleasant memory that, from our first inquiry case.
“A Viking ceremony would be far more efficient,” I commented.
