Sir Edward Mallory was somewhat portly, immaculately dressed, with what I thought to be deceptively cordial features, thick brows drawn together and a frown on his mouth.
From things my great-aunt had told me, he had to be very near sixty years old. His suit was black, as was to be expected, however except for that, there was an energy about the man that belied age and circumstances, a man very much in control. Perhaps that came with his profession.
“I was told that you would be calling. You must forgive my man, Mr. Hobbs. He was doing his official duty at this very difficult time for our family.” He turned to me.
“You were at the service for my daughter earlier this week.”
We exchanged brief pleasantries, if it could be called that under the circumstances. He invited us to sit in the thick upholstered chairs before his desk.
“And we have met before,” he acknowledged Brodie. “In your work with the MET, I believe.”
Brodie nodded. “I gave evidence it two cases regarding clients that you represented at the time.”
“Yes, I remember, and I want you to know that I will assist now however I can. The person who is responsible must be found and held to account.”
We discussed the events of the evening that Charlotte Mallory was killed, her appointments that day, and that she was to meet her fiancé for supper at Rule’s after leaving the print shop.
“There was no difficulty that you were aware of, between her and Mr. Eddington?” Brodie inquired.
“No, of course not. The wedding was to be in January. He is a fine young man, with my office, as I’m certain you’re aware. He is devastated, absolutely devastated over this, as you can no doubt imagine.”
“There was an item found at the location where Miss Mallory was attacked.” Brodie then approached the subject of the rose and what it might mean.
“A flower,” he clarified.
Sir Mallory shook his head. “I had heard that. I can only assume that my daughter received it from her fiancé or perhaps purchased it.”
“Has there been any difficulty with anyone you might have represented professionally in the past?” Brodie asked.
I caught the faintest change of expression at Sir Mallory’s face. Perhaps it was nothing at all. Still…
“None that I am aware of,” Sir Mallory replied.
Knowing Brodie, there would be more questions.
“I know that this is a very difficult time,” I commented. “However, I wonder if I might I speak with Mrs. Mallory? To again express my condolences.”
I stood and waited expectantly.
“Of course, Lady Forsythe. Mr. Hobbs will show you to the parlor. I believe that she is still there.”
I found Mrs. Mallory sitting before a fire, the pallor on her face much the same as our previous encounter at the funeral for her daughter.
Mr. Hobbs introduced me.
“Yes, I remember,” she acknowledged. “It is good of you to call, Lady Forsythe. There have been so many the past two days, all very kind.”
I didn’t bother to point out that this wasn’t a social call.
She seemed… fragile, with a small writing table beside her that included notes she was no doubt writing in answer to condolences they had received.
I expressed my own once again at the loss of her daughter as tea was served, then waited until the butler left.
I did hate intruding when one was grieving, however I thought there might be something Charlotte mentioned in recent days that could be important.
“My family, most particularly my ward, was very fond of Charlotte,” I began. “She was so very talented and caring.”
There was a faint sad smile. “My sister was quite talented as well.”
