“What might we find at what is left of the warehouse after such a devastating fire?” I asked as our driver made his way through the early morning streets past the Tower and toward the East End.
“I have seen fires in the past, several of them here in London. A dangerous business to be certain,” Brodie explained as he stared out the window at the incessant rain that had greeted us once more that morning upon rising.
“A captain with the fire brigade told me on one of the fires I was called to, that there is always somethin’ that is left behind—a bottle of the drink, or some small piece of something that tells who might have been there. And for whatever reason, the remnants of the Harris warehouse might be able to tell us something, even after five years.”
“Is there still business conducted there?” I asked. “Shipments that are still received?”
“For two years after, but not for a long time now, Mr. Dooley was able to learn.”
The telephone call had come quite early at the office on the Strand. Mr. Dooley had found the former manager of thewarehouse, who managed two other nearby warehouses, and oddly enough, still received a stipend from the Harris company to keep watch over the property, which was still owned by Harris Imports.
“That seems odd after all these years,” I commented. “What could there be to keep watch over? Burnt ruins?”
We arrived quite early at the docks with that row of warehouses along the wharf, in order to meet with Constable Nolan before he needed to be off to make his shift.
There were only two steam ships moored there waiting, it appeared, to be unloaded. Captain Turner had once explained that often the ships arrived late in the day then waited until the next day for dockworkers to unload their cargos.
At this time of the morning, the tide had not fully turned, and in spite of those cargos still in their holds, the two ships rose quite high in the water at their moorings.
“The river is a fickle woman,”he had told me. “And a dangerous one, particularly with the rain that floods it. That is when most ship captains will make certain to wait out the storm in the channel before entering the river so as not to find themselves at high tide next to Buckingham Palace. It would not go well with the Queen.”
Constable Nolan was heavyset, more of the muscular sort, in full police uniform, with a nod for Brodie as the rain thickened and I opened my umbrella.
He greeted us with a tip of his hat as Brodie introduced me as his ‘associate,’ rather than introducing me as his wife.
I had suggested it as it seemed to be more credible when most women were simply looked past, particularly in professional positions.
“This way then,” Constable Nolan indicated the row of warehouses and the darkened hulk of the one on the end.
“I did speak with the former manager for Harris Imports. According to what he told me, he has stayed on as a sort of watchman since there is still a storeroom that survived the fire.
“Quite an effort that was,” he continued. “Saving the rest of the warehouses when it went up. And tragic that the owner died in the fire. You’ll need to be careful where you step, miss. A great deal of it has been cleaned up and then picked through in the years since. But there are still some roof timbers and the loading dock still there.”
And in that way of disasters there were the creatures that had set up residence in the ruins—at least two cats that skittered into the shadows as we arrived, along with a host of pigeons that filled the rafters over that storeroom at the back of the site where the main part of the warehouse had once stood.
I had some experience exploring ruins, though admittedly not usually charred ruins. Still, I took care where I stepped as Constable Nolan led us through what remained of the Harris Imports warehouse.
According to my great-aunt, the company was once quite prosperous, with coffee imported from Brazil and sugar from the West Indies. All of that apparently changed when Amelia Harris was murdered by Gerald Ormsby.
The tragedy was the first of a series of events that destroyed the Harris family and the lucrative import business Simon Harris had built.
I picked my way through the remnants of charred and crumbled walls that still smelled of smoke after all this time, as rain soaked everything.
What, I thought, might these ruins tell us, if anything, about the recent murders of two young women?
Brodie and Constable Nolan had slowly moved ahead, Brodie taking everything in with that dark gaze, occasionally shiftingsomething out of the way or poking with the tip of his umbrella. He picked up something from amidst the rubble.
Then, he continued on with Constable Nolan. As they reached the storeroom that had survived the fire, someone called out from wharf-side where the warehouse stood before the fire.
“Mr. Martins, the former manager,” Constable Nolan explained and introduced him as he joined us.
Brodie explained that we were investigating a connection to the Harris fire for a client and asked if it was possible to unlock the storeroom.
Mr. Martins was hesitant, and no doubt suspicious.
“There’s naught inside but a few tools,” he replied dismissively. “Nothing of value.”
“Yet it is locked,” Brodie pointed out.
