Charlotte Mallory
Who was C. Walmsley? There was no way of knowing with that address on the outside. Only that Charlotte Mallory had written—Mrs. Walmsley, on the letter itself.
Yet, I had learned several things in those few words.
One: Mrs. Walmsley had contacted Charlotte some months earlier and then again on 18 November.
Two: There was something in that original letter that had alarmed Charlotte, even though she chose to ignore it. Then she had received a second letter.
I obviously had questions.
Who was C. Walmsley of Guildford?
What had she written in those letters that had upset Charlotte Mallory?
What did any of it mean to our current inquiry case?
I remained at the office rather than returning to Mayfair, so that I might discuss those contents with Brodie when he returned.
It was quite late when he finally arrived. After meeting with Daniel Eddington, he had then met with Mr. Dooley regarding the information he asked him to obtain.
“Ye should have bolted the door,” he commented as he hesitated in the open doorway, watching the street below, an icy gust of wind swirling into the office as the weather arrived.
“Mr. Cavendish was standing guard in the alcove below after returning from the Public House. And the hound was quite content to guard the stairs,” I informed him with some humor.
It was apparently wasted as he continued to watch the street below, his eyes narrowed.
“What is it?”
“A man across the way, watching the office.”
The Strand was never empty, no matter the time of day or night. It was at the edge of the theater district just a short distance away, along with a handful of taverns, the Public House, and other establishments.
I approached the entrance and glanced down at the street. While the weather and the time of the night had sent most people home, there were still several afoot and others in cabs who hurried against the cold and the rain that had started.
I saw no one across the way who lingered in spite of the weather. Whoever it might have been was now gone. Brodie closed and bolted the door.
“Mr. Cavendish brought supper from the Public House,” I told him. “There on the desk.”
He made only the barest acknowledgement, obviously deep in thought as he set his umbrella aside and removed his neck scarf.
“I ate earlier with Lily and Aunt Antonia,” I mentioned. “I told Lily as much as I could about our inquiries.” I tried again.
“What were you able to learn from Mr. Dooley?”
He still hadn’t touched the covered plate on the desk, but stood before the chalkboard where I had made additional notes after reading that letter.
“He was finally able to locate the wine merchant. He’s driven that route for the past five years. He gave the same description of the man he saw but thought nothing of it at the time, as it was only late afternoon that day.”
And then in that way when he was thinking of two things at once.
“Ye read the letter…”
In addition to the contents of that letter, I also told Brodie about my conversation with my great-aunt. And once again, I had the impression that he was barely listening, if at all.
Then, in that way he has, he looked up and asked what I thought the information my great-aunt had shared might mean. Infuriating man.
“I have no idea what it means,” I replied. “It hardly seems likely that the same person committed that murder five years ago, and now again. After all, he’s dead.”
