I carefully folded it in that piece of paper then slipped it between the pages of my notebook.
The question was, what did it mean that a single rose had been found on the bodies of both Charlotte Mallory and Margaret Cameron. Furthermore, what did it mean that Doctor Cameron chose not to disclose the rose I had just found, even though it was noted in the police report?
“He wouldn’t have known that,” Brodie pointed out. “But the question remains, why was it thrown out?”
“And,” I added, “where was the good doctor going after he said that he was expecting a late appointment?”
Ten
I have discoveredin our inquiry cases that when it comes to crime, nothing is trivial or unimportant. Everything discovered, each clue, often leads to something else, and then something important.
It was, as I pointed out to Brodie, very much like a jigsaw puzzle, one piece led to another until the whole picture emerged. So far, we had only a few random pieces to this puzzle and none of them connected. Yet.
Which led me now to pace before the chalkboard in the office on the Strand where I had made new notes after returning from our visit with Dr. Cameron.
We had learned two very important things:
One: the good doctor had specifically said that nothing else was found on the body other than a few coins in Margaret Cameron’s handbag.
Two: We had, after much searching, found the rose in the rubbish container in the front office by Miss Phipps’s desk, very near the same as the flower found on Charlotte Mallory’s body.
Either Miss Phipps had thought it unimportant and simply tossed it away, or there had been a deliberate attempt to getrid of it either by her or Doctor Cameron. Then there was the doctor’s immediate departure after we left.
I contemplated all of this as Brodie sat at the desk, going over the police report Mr. Dooley had provided. Then the service bell at the landing rang.
Supper had arrived. I was starving.
Brodie went out onto the landing, and returned with the supper Mr. Cavendish had brought from the Public House across the way. It was neatly wrapped in brown paper and then in a paper bag to make it easier for Mr. Cavendish to navigate the Strand without losing it.
He did have a penchant for crossing the Strand at a dangerous speed that terrified coach and cart drivers as well, with Rupert the hound usually close beside amidst shaken fists and colorful curses.
“Meat pies!” I exclaimed of that hearty fare found in most working areas of London. And those from the public house, prepared by Miss Effie, who had become a good friend, were most excellent.
“And for Mr. Cavendish as well?” I inquired, as she usually sent along supper for him.
“Aye,” Brodie replied. “He and that disgusting hound were well into their pies in the alcove when I retrieved our supper.”
“Has he said anything yet?” I asked.
“About wot?”
“Miss Effie,” I replied. “There is most definitely something going on there.”
That dark gaze met mine as he set a paper carton before me on the desk.
“Miss Effie and Cavendish?”
“Hmmm,” I replied as I savored the meat pie. “They have been spending a considerable amount of time together.”
It was so like a man not to notice these things.
“Miss Effie and Cavendish?” he repeated.
“It is quite obvious. He even inquired what sort of candy she might like.”
He had set his fork down and stared at me.
“She leaves the door to the storeroom at the Public House open for him when the weather turns,” I pointed out. “And he has most definitely improved in his attire.”
