“Wot is it?” Brodie asked. He did know me quite well.
“Mr. Morrison with the Times wrote a brief article after Amelia Harris was murdered. His style was somewhat theatrical.” That was as close as I might describe it.
“It seems that a red rose was nearby when her body was found, and then several more arrived for the funeral. The color red is for passion,” I reminded Brodie.
“There has to be a connection to the murders of Charlotte Mallory and Elizabeth Cameron,” I concluded. “I’m certain of it.”
And that name? The witness who disappeared—Walmsley? I was certain the name was the next piece to the puzzle.
“Aye, verra possible,” he agreed. “A trip to Guildford might be useful, to find what the person might know who sent those letters.”
Brodie poured us both another dram of whisky.
“I’ll contact Mr. Dooley to see what he might be able to learn about that warehouse fire,” he added. “It shouldna be too difficult to find information. Harris, ye said the name was? A coffee importer?”
With our plan made to go to Guildford the following morning, I realized that I hadn’t eaten all day.
“I will buy supper at the Public House,” I told him. My clothes had dried for the most part and I was suddenly quite hungry.
He took the glass from my hand.
“Aye, to the invitation, howeverIwill pay. For now, I can still afford to feed ye, despite the fact that ye eat like a horse, and take inquiry cases where there is no fee,” he added pointedly.
Spoken like a true Scot.
“Of course, dear,” I replied as he held my coat for me.
Fifteen
Guildford wasa quaint village in Surrey south of London, surrounded by farm land.
It had changed very little over the last three hundred years, with cobbled lanes, white-washed houses, many with thatched roofs, a stream that meandered through the middle of the village, a church and a handful of other buildings built around a town square. One of those buildings was the Borough Hall that also contained the local postal office.
It was two hours travel from Paddington Station in London, that sprawling domed rail station with a dozen tracks spreading like fingers across various parts of London and beyond.
By comparison, Guildford station had two tracks, one incoming and one outgoing, and a single-story red brick stationhouse with a roof that extended out over the platform as a means of protecting passengers from the weather that had followed us from London.
I had remembered to bring an umbrella from the office and opened it as we departed the rail car upon our arrival.
We made inquiries and the station master directed us to the postal office at Borough Hall, a place where all, he claimed, who lived in Guildford were known.
“For collecting the taxes,” the clerk said with a nod.
A driver appeared and took us to Borough Hall. We had arrived before midday from London. The mayor was off on some bit of business, and we were assisted by a clerk, an older man with sleeves rolled back and an apron, who appeared as if he managed the tavern we had passed on the ride from the rail station.
When Brodie introduced us, he replied with that rural accent that I had become familiar with on my travels in the past beyond London proper. “From London, are you now.”
“I have a post sent from Guildford from a friend I haven’t communicated with in years,” I replied and ignored the bemused look Brodie gave me. It was, after all, a small lie and hardly the sort that would cause any harm. “If you know where I might find them?”
He gave me a long look, the sort that takes in head to foot. He apparently decided that I wasn’t the criminal sort or one who would cause anyone harm.
“What might the name be?” he asked.
“Walmsley.”
“It has been some time since you’ve visited then,” he replied. “Johnathan passed on early this year after a long illness. His wife, Cora, lives in a small cottage just past the leathermakers.”
“It’s hard on a woman on her own with no family. Lost a child right after they came here. And I hear she’s not well either.” he added. “You might keep that in mind.”
