I sat back in the chair before that reading machine, in an attempt to grasp the information I’d learned. So much tragedy, a murder unsolved that had devastated a family, and a witness that had gone missing.
But what did all of it mean all these years later in the deaths of two young women?
I made notes from the additional information I had found, then returned the roll of film to the clerk.
“Do you know of Mr. Morrison, a writer with the Times?” I inquired. It might be useful to speak with him about anything else he might remember from that earlier murder.
“Mr. Morrison?” he replied with some surprise. “He’s been gone must be six or seven years now. Heard that he had a bit of a habit with the drink that finally got him.”
There would be no information to be found there. I thanked him.
It was early afternoon but seemed much later with the weather. A thick rain had continued through the morning and into the afternoon, and I had neglected to bring my umbrella.
With the Times archive building very near the Strand, I had arranged to meet Brodie back at the office afterward.
He had returned as well, Mr. Cavendish informed me as I arrived.
The office was warm and inviting, a fire burning in the coal stove. Brodie sat at the desk, pipe in hand, as he studied the chalkboard. He looked up as I entered the office.
“I was startin’ to think I might need to have Mr. Cavendish send the hound after ye with this weather.”
He rose from the desk as I removed my coat. He took it from me and hung it to dry beside his.
“And I see that ye left without yer umbrella.”
That might explain strands of my hair wet against my cheeks.
“It is a bit wet out,” I replied as he went into the adjacent bedroom and returned with a towel.
“For an intelligent woman, it is surprising that ye go about without yer umbrella or a stout pair of boots.”
“I was anxious to get started this morning.”
The scolding, if it could be called that, continued as he took my bag and set it on the desk, then proceeded to dry my hair, me, and finally remove my shoes.
“Yer feet are wet as well!” He made one of those sounds, much like a parent scolding a child.
“That has been known to happen when crossing the street in a downpour,” I pointed out. Yet, I had discovered that Iliked these moments when this part of him—protective, caring, perhaps a little worried, escaped from behind that dark gaze.
“Come and stand by the fire and warm yerself.”
“Is that a dram of Old Lodge you have there?” I inquired of the tumbler beside his pipe on the desk.
That dark gaze narrowed as he went to the sideboard, a new acquisition for the office, and retrieved another glass.
“Wot am I to do with ye?”
I had some thoughts about that as he returned and handed me the glass with whisky shimmering like gold. However, I supposed it would have to wait as I studied the chalkboard.
“You’ve made notes,” I commented.
“Some.”
“Your meeting with Judge Cameron was successful?” If not, I was fairly certain I would have already heard about it.
“More or less,” he replied, taking a sip from his own glass with a thoughtful expression.
“And that would mean?”
