“Something that you should be aware of, Mr. Brodie,” she added.
“I’ve already witnessed her skill in that regard,” he replied, as we heard the first sounds of music from the music room.
“I do believe that is Chopin,” Aunt Antonia announced.
Concerto No. 2, to be precise, and Lily performed it exquisitely. I knew that from countless agonizing hours I spent with my own music teacher very near the same age as Lily.
It was another of the talents I somewhat lacked, along with any artistic ability with oils or water colors. And the reason I was often given to question whether Linnie and I had the same set of parents.
My sister had acquired all the artistic ability, while I much preferred…
“The sword room and hiking about the forest in the north of Scotland?” Brodie commented when I mentioned the vastdifference between Linnie and myself, as my aunt’s coachman took us back to the office on the Strand.
“How could two sisters possibly be so very different?” I had asked.
“It would seem that ye favor her ladyship,” he replied. “Considerin’ the stories ye’ve told me when she was a young girl. And no doubt, bein’ raised by someone of her nature might have rubbed off on ye a wee bit.”
That dark gaze found mine through the shadows in the coach from the lanterns that Mr. Hastings had lit against the gloom of the day.
“We must find the person who did this,” I replied, my throat suddenly tight. “For the Mallorys and Charlotte’s fiancé, and of course for Lily. This is very hard for her.”
He reached across the space between the two seats and took my hand.
“Aye, ye understand, lass. We both understand.”
“A red rose,” I said aloud, as I sat at the edge of the desk across from Brodie and stared at the chalkboard after returning from Sussex Square and the funeral service earlier for Charlotte Mallory.
In addition to the few pieces of information that we’d gathered, I had made a separate list of possible motives.
It was late and the weather was beastly. We chose to spend the night at the office rather than return to Mayfair.
It was very near midnight when I went to bed, while Brodie chose to continue to work in the adjacent office.
That was very much like him with a case, even when there were few clues as in the murder of Charlotte Mallory.
He went back over everything, a habit from his days with the MET—the time that the body was found, others who might have been on the street that early in the evening. And that rose.
He was inclined to be skeptical about the rose we had seen on Charlotte Mallory’s casket at Brompton. However, while skeptical since there were dozens upon dozens of floral arrangements there, I knew from experience he didn’t dismiss it.
For myself, it was more useful to lay everything out, make my lists, and then put information on the chalkboard.
I suppose it was the reason we worked so well together, suggesting possibilities—his experience from the streets, mine from growing up in what was referred to aspolite society. If one could call murder polite!
It was sometime later, after I had retired for the night, when sounds from the office wakened me, and I realized that Brodie was not alone.
I pulled on my skirt and shirtwaist, then stepped into the outer office, the wood floor of the office cold beneath my bare feet.
Brodie was at the desk, a deep frown on his face. Inspector Dooley stood across from him, his own expression grave. He glanced up at the sight of me.
“Beg pardon, Miss Forsythe. I thought Mr. Brodie should know.”
In spite of the fact that he was now a police inspector, Mr. Dooley continued to greet Brodie formally from their time together with the MET.
“The call came in barely a half hour ago, and by the sound of it…”
“Aye,” Brodie replied, then with a look over to me, “A young woman has been found dead in St. James’s Park with a wound similar to Charlotte Mallory.”
“She wasn’t found right away, due to being short-staffed of constables at the park,” Mr. Dooley explained, “as there’s never any crime to speak of in that part of London, and what with the weather last night and all.
