“Some of your sponge cake would be greatly appreciated.” Brodie was fond of it, as was Rupert.
“I’ll not see it wasted on that beast of a hound,” she declared.
“And perhaps some of your biscuits?”
I was in the midst of going over the notes in my notebook when the telephone jangled sharply from the stand in the hallway.
On her way out, Mrs. Ryan answered the telephone and informed me that the caller was Mrs. Mallory.
“I can only speak briefly,”she hurriedly explained as I picked up the earpiece.
Out of concern that she might be overheard by the servants? I did recall her watchfulness the day we met at the Mallory residence.
I quickly gave her the address for the office on the Strand, then added, “Charlotte received two letters, one several months ago, and one quite recent. It might help if you were to bring them…”
There was a polite response that could mean anything to someone listening at the other end of the call, then the call abruptly ended.
I had no way of knowing when, or even if, Mrs. Mallory might in fact be able to meet me, yet I went upstairs, quickly dressed, then called for a cabman.
“Mr. Brodie left earlier,” Mr. Cavendish informed me when I arrived at the office on the Strand.
“Did he say where he was going?”
Mr. Cavendish shook his head. “I did hear him tell the driver to take him to the Old Bailey.”
It seemed that, failing Judge Cameron’s cooperation in setting an appointment, Brodie had decided to go directly to the courts. He was determined to speak with him in spite of the difficult situation over the death of his daughter.
Mr. Cavendish handed me the newest issue of the daily. The latest article by Theodolphus Burke filled most of the front page. The deaths of two London women were now being called the Rose Murders. Mr. Burke was determined to elevate his career no matter what it took—sensationalism, mostly repeating what had already been printed about the two murders.
I then climbed the stairs to the office and read the daily. The details of the first murder were repeated, then the second murder as well. There was speculation with the writer of the article ‘following leads to discover who had committed the dreadful crime, possibly at risk to himself.’
It was quite dramatic, yet when reading the article, it became very obvious Mr. Burke had nothing new to write about.
I put the daily aside and then spent the next hour reorganizing my notes on the chalkboard, then adding a note about meeting with Mrs. Mallory. Then I created a second list of inquiries yet to be made that might provide additional information.
It was very near midday, and I had arrived at the conclusion that Mrs. Mallory was not going to appear when the bell on the landing rang out.
Most unusual, Mrs. Mallory had arrived in a rented hack rather than a private coach. She now stood hesitantly on the sidewalk speaking with Mr. Cavendish, the hound at his side. I did hope that Rupert didn’t greet Mrs. Mallory in the usual way. I had visions of her screaming then collapsing on the sidewalk in horror.
He did have a way of greeting people, myself included when I first made his acquaintance, that was somewhat off-putting. As a child, I was constantly around dogs and quite used to their ways.
The hound was different, and I had long suspected that his usual greeting was a deliberate move to establish dominance. As for myself, I had firmly established that I would not put up with such ill-mannered habits.
An old boot, some poor creature brought back from the streets, were one thing. Rudeness was quite another.
I quickly descended the stairs to rescue Mrs. Mallory, and discovered there was no need. She had the situation firmly in hand, or rather her umbrella that Mr. Cavendish held for her as she knelt on the sidewalk murmuring several endearments, her gloved hands stroking the hound behind the ears. She looked up as I hastily arrived, prepared to reprimand the hound.
“He is quite a marvelous fellow, isn’t he,” she said in a soft voice. “Once one looks past the soot and mud.”
“Beg pardon, you must forgive him,” Mr. Cavendish started to apologize as the hound made himself prostrate on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Mallory.
“He’s spent his life on the streets with no manners or care for others until Miss Mikaela came. He does seem to have a preference for the ladies.”
Mrs. Mallory slowly stood and brushed her hands down the front of the black coat she wore over a black gown.
“I have discovered that animals are better than most people,” she said in a soft, thoughtful voice. “And always honest. My daughter loved animals.” That sad gaze met mine.
Together we climbed the stairs to the office.
