There were also the funds she had distributed to us each month, which I had objected to, particularly after the success of my books.
She had insisted at the time.“It is my money, dear. I will do as I wish.”
That had settled the matter.
“If I should pass on first, you will be a very wealthy man. But do remember the Viking send-off,” I reminded Brodie.
He made that particular scoffing sound that I was certain was invented by a Scot.
“A portrait, a doll, and a few odd pieces of jewelry?” he replied. “I would prefer to keep you around for a while. That is, most of the time.”
Such endearing sentiments. And then a different expression appeared in that dark gaze.
“At least ye have the portrait of yer mother to remember her by.”
We returned to the office on the Strand after leaving the warehouse area at St. Katherine’s Docks.
It was still early in the morning, and I updated information on the chalkboard that included my notes about what I observed at the site where the warehouse once stood, including the storeroom.
I finished and dusted off my hands, attempting to find something in all of it that made sense—a connection that might explain two murders.
Brodie was at his desk, an object before him laid out on a piece of butcher paper left from one of our suppers from the Public House. The man refused to throw anything out. A habit no doubt a left-over from his days on the street when he had nothing.
If I had heard it once, I had heard it dozens of times since we first worked together.
“It could be useful,” he had declared of the latest bit or piece he had picked up; a bit of wire, a piece of leather, or somethingelse that one might consider rubbish. And somehow women were the subject of frequent humor about trinkets they acquired.
I give him credit for the wire, however. It had come in most useful when picking a lock. A cabinet that currently stood in the bedroom now contained those other bits and pieces.
“What have you there?” I asked as I approached the desk. It looked very much like a piece of charred wood.
“A souvenir?”
“In a manner of speaking. I found it under some of the other debris.” He picked up the odd piece and handed it to me.
“Tell me what you see.”
The object I had seen him inspecting closely at the warehouse site was a piece of charred wood. I picked it up.
“Something for your collection perhaps,” I cheekily replied. “A paperweight perhaps?” I suggested.
“What else?”
“Black, charred wood, and somewhat oily.”
“What do ye smell?”
“Something… sharp.” I looked up at him.
Brodie nodded. “I smelled it as well.”
“After all this time?” I set it back on the desk and rubbed my fingers, covered with soot.
“I suppose it is possible,” he replied. “There is a man I know, a captain with the fire brigade. He might be able to tell us something about it.”
Most curious, I thought. Particularly after all this time. Of course, it was possible that it was simply old residue from something that had been inside the warehouse.
I checked the time on my watch.
