“Thank ye for coming as quickly as ye did. This is my associate, Miss Forsythe.”
We had previously discussed how I was to be introduced to potential clients or others we worked with.
Lady Forsytheseemed pretentious unless it was a situation where it might be advantageous, at which time it could be used with no hesitation on my part.
Brodie had pointed out that my given name, Mikaela Forsythe, might seem too informal, particularly with those he objected to treating me so familiarly.
As for my married name, Mikaela Forsythe Brodie, that might create issues as well. He had pointed out that while he very much liked the sound of it, there were those he had encountered in the past, of a criminal sort, who would like nothing better than to get back at him through his wife.
While I wasn’t concerned about it, he was, that was the reason that he usually introduced me as his associate, Miss Forsythe.
“This is Constable Erskine,” Brodie provided. “He was on the call the night of the murder.”
Constable Erskine nodded a greeting. “That I was.” He turned back to Brodie, effectively dismissing me. I was used to that sort of thing, but that didn’t mean that I liked it.
“It is good of you to assist us,” I told him.
There was that nod again, with a faint smile this time.
“I don’t know what more I can tell you, Mr. Brodie. I see you have a copy of the report.” He gestured across the desk to the copy Brodie had made.
“I had my partner give the information to the night officer when we got back from the Yard.”
“I thought there might be something that wasn’t in the report,” Brodie suggested. “Something that might have been said or noticed but didn’t make it on paper. Would ye take a look?” He turned the copy of the report about and slid it across to Constable Erskine.
He pulled a pair of spectacles from his jacket pocket and put them on, then began reading the copy of the report, occasionally reading aloud, then continuing on.
“Pretty thing, she was,” he said with a frown as he stared down at the copy of the report. “And holding that flower.”
I exchanged a look with Brodie but said nothing.
Constable Erskine was thoughtful. “When I first saw her lyin’ there with that flower across her, it reminded me…”
“What did it remind you of?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Somethin’ a long time ago perhaps, and it was just for a moment. An impression, you understand, that flower just under her hand. Almost as if…”
“Wot do ye remember, Mr. Erskine?” Brodie prompted him.
He shook his head. “After seein’ this sort of thing over twenty-five years… You know how it is Mr. Brodie; you don’t want to see any more of it. Just doing my job, responding to the calls when they come in, waiting for the day when I can retire.
“What you did, leaving after only a few years,” he continued. “I should have done the same, but we had three young ones at home then. They’re all gone now, and I’ve only eighteen months left. Then, I’m out on my pension.”
“Is there anything else you remember from that night,” Brodie replied.
“Were the street lamps lit nearby?” I asked.
He nodded. “They’d been lit some time before. It was the reason we had no trouble seeing that she was already dead, and that wound as well.” He hesitated.
“There were a handful who gathered about in that way that a crime draws attention, and then the man from the newspaper.”
“Mr. Burke from the Times,” Brodie provided the name.
He nodded. “That’s the one, got there before we arrived. Thought it was odd at the time. But you know how it is, guv’ner.”
And something that Burke hadn’t bothered to mention. I wasn’t surprised.
From working with Brodie, I was aware that a handful of the more successful writers for the newspapers had their ‘sources’ on the street. Those who often knew of a crime before the police or anyone else, and then sold the information to the newspapers.
