I nodded. “I know that so very well. My sister is quite artistic, while I do well to draw simple stick figures.”
That common experience seemed to ease the formality between us, and I decided to try something that Brodie had once explained, that might provide a way to ask Mrs. Mallory questions.
“My sister and I are very close and I remember how devastating it was when she disappeared,” I commented. “And then her companion at the time was found dead.”
I chose not to use the word ‘murdered.’ It was such a harsh word and while it applied to both situations, I wasn’t of a mind to be cruel.
“It was such a difficult time,” I continued. “However, I was determined to find those responsible, as well as find my sister.”
She nodded, and I took that as my cue.
“There was so little information at the time,” I began. “Yet, slowly, and with the help of Mr. Brodie, we discovered one clue, and then another.”
“I do remember reading something of that in the dailies,” Mrs. Mallory commented. “So very difficult. And you eventually found her?”
“Yes, and equally important, we were able to stop the persons responsible from hurting anyone else and see that they were held accountable. There were clues that were invaluable in finding them.”
Granted, I might have exaggerated a few of the aspects of that first case, yet it was very near the truth. And I did see a subtle change in her manner at the mention of holding the murderers accountable, the way the tension seemed as she leaned toward me.
“And your sister? She is well.”
“Quite well. Our great-aunt is currently assisting her in planning her wedding.”
“Lady Antonia Montgomery,” she commented. “I know of her from the society pages.”
“Through that ordeal,” I continued, “I learned how very important even the smallest detail can be in ending a very dreadful situation.”
“What sort of insignificant information?”
Rather than go into details about that case, I stayed with generalities that might bring a memory of something Charlotte had shared with her.
“A place my sister planned to visit, an encounter she mentioned, something that seemed unimportant when we last spoke, yet provided insight into something important.”
She nodded. “I was helping her plan her wedding. So many decisions to make… far more than I remember from my wedding to Sir Mallory—the church, invitations to be sent out…” She hesitated and the tears came.
“She had gone to the printer’s shop. I told her that we could have them delivered, but she wanted to check them one last time… there was a mistake the first time.” She pulled her handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown and blotted at the fresh tears.
“And of course there were the flowers to be decided upon,” I commented in an attempt to draw the conversation forward.
“Oh, yes,” she replied, composing herself once more.
“Red roses?” I suggested.
“Red?” She looked at me with a different expression, confusion at first, and then something else.
“It seemed that she might have purchased one from a flower vendor that day. Or someone gave it to her? Mr. Eddington, perhaps?” I gently suggested.
“I don’t know anything about that,” she replied, pressing her fingers against her temple.
“It was something the newspapers printed...”
She stood abruptly, and I caught her uneasy glance toward the parlor doors that had been left open.
Had someone been listening to our conversation?
“Thank you for your condolences, Lady Forsythe,” she said, quite formally. “If you will excuse me.”
She didn’t wait for a response but immediately left the room. Not in that slow manner I might have expected of someone in mourning, but more like someone fleeing a fire.
