“It could simply be natural instinct,” I pointed out. “It is said that women most particularly seem to have that.”
“Women’s instinct?” he replied.
“It was through instinct that I decided you might be qualified to assist in pursuing my sister’s case,” I pointed out.
Never mind that the initial recommendation had come from my great-aunt. That was beside the point.
“Instinct?” he repeated.
“On the surface you hardly seemed the reputable sort,” I explained. “However, you proved yourself most adequate.” I had sensed other things about Angus Brodie at the time, but this was enough to share for now.
“Adequate?” he replied.
One look at that dark gaze and I knew quite well the reason that I tolerated that insufferable Scot manner. That and the other reason of course. No other man I had ever known valued my thoughts and ideas, and… that woman’s instinct.
We had determined that in spite of the two recent deaths and what would normally be the appropriate period of mourning, we needed to speak with the families of Charlotte Mallory and Margaret Cameron for any possibility that there was something they might be able to share something that would shed light on their deaths. Difficult as it was, it needed to be done.
I have found in the past that my official title as Lady Forsythe did have a tendency to open certain doors, and I was not opposed to using it.
Nor was I opposed to using my great-aunt’s name of Montgomery when it came to doors that might be firmly closed for one reason or another, most particularly when it came to an official investigation. It could be off-putting.
“What was the response when ye made the request to meet with Sir Mallory?” Brodie asked as our driver navigated traffic across London to the Mallory residence in Knightsbridge.
The telephone call that I put through had been answered by a servant who politely but firmly informed that due to a recent family loss, Sir Mallory was not receiving any visitors.
I had then asked to speak with Sir Mallory and gave my formal name, Lady Mikaela Forsythe. There had been a sudden silence from the person at the other end. It was then that Sir Mallory responded and proceeded to explain the same, and surely I understood.
I politely informed him that we were making inquiries as part of the official investigation by the Metropolitan Police, and added that I was certain he supported that, given his professional position and in the interest of finding the persons responsible.
I then added that if it was not convenient to meet with myself and Mr. Brodie, that the current chief inspector would need to meet with him in the matter at his office.
A polite but curt response followed that he would be able to meet with us at ten o’clock of the morning.
“Ye are quite ruthless,” Brodie commented now.
“The pot calling the kettle black?” I replied as we sped across London toward our meeting with Sir Mallory.
When we arrived, we were met at the main entrance of the Mallory residence by the head butler, who announced our arrival in a voice I recognized from that telephone call.
“Lady Forsythe,” he acknowledged now, with an expectant look at Brodie.
“Mr. Brodie,” he provided the introduction. “Consultant with the Metropolitan Police.”
That did seem the best way to describe his association with the MET. We were immediately shown unto the formal library to await Sir Mallory.
The residence was draped in black, as was to be expected of a household during a period of mourning.
Black crepe had been hung across the front entrance, mirrors were draped in black or turned to the wall. There were dozens of bouquets of flowers about the front parlor as we passed by. However, not a red rose in sight.
While we waited, I glanced at Sir Mallory’s preference for reading. Not that I thought I might find one of my books on the shelves behind his desk, however I have always found it interesting to glimpse a person’s preferences. It can tell a great deal about them.
There were two shelves filled with books regarding the law, which was to be expected. There were also books on the history of English rule from the time of the Conquest through the sixteenth century—Aunt Antonia would have been amused at that, since her ancestors filled the pages of English history.
There were also books on military campaigns, including the war with the American colonies, and a half-dozen volumes by Mr. Dickens. A most interesting variety, and in itself gave me some insight into the man who had acquired the reputation of being one of the most well-known and successful barristers in England.
That brief conversation over the telephone and the glimpse into his preferred reading did not prepare me for the man who eventually joined us in the library.
I had expected someone lean, perhaps even gaunt, the events of the past days heavy in the lines on his face.
