“Information about a fire some years ago at a warehouse at St. Katherine’s Docks.”
Brown nodded. “Harris Imports. A large loss that would have made a nice profit if I had been in charge.”
“The story is it was an accident, a horrible tragedy, with Harris dyin’ in it that night.”
“That is the story.”
“And his man, Mr. Carney, who worked for him then, and still does, all these years later.”
Brodie saw the change in Brown’s expression, the way his eyes narrowed and sharpened, even as he casually asked. “And what might your interest be?”
Brodie took the piece of burnt wood from his pocket and laid it on the table. Brown picked it up, rubbing his fingers along the wood then smelling it, much as Brodie had. He shrugged.
“That piece of wood tells a different story,” Brodie commented.
Brown motioned both of his men out of the flat. But undoubtedly no farther than a shout away. It was what he would have done.
“Harris Imports,” Brown commented. “I heard about it at the time. A pity to be certain, all that cargo up in smoke. And now you have this piece of wood.
“You ask yourself why would a successful and wealthy man set fire to his own warehouse, and then die in it as well, his daughter murdered and then the death of his wife shortly after. I suppose grief can be a powerful thing.”
For some, Brodie thought. But the man before him? That was highly questionable.
“And now your suspicions about that fire, and the two murders of those young women.”
Brodie’s gaze narrowed. The idea that there might be a connection had been there from the beginning, that single rose left behind connected them. However, both he and Mikaela felt like they were stumbling about in the dark with nothing that made any sense.
Yet, as he had learned in his work for the MET, there was always something, even seemingly random, that connected things. It was just a matter of digging deep enough and learning what that flower left behind meant.
Brown nodded as he continued to inspect that piece of wood. “There is a smell about it, even after all this time. A bad smell I would say, particularly when Carney has built up a sizeable side business.”
“What sort of side business?” Brodie inquired.
“The sort that avoids the larger docks and the tax man, and brings a right smart profit.”
“For whom, with Harris dead these long years?”
“That would be the question.” Brown replied. “I encountered the man on a trip regarding interests of my own. Seems it is a regular occurrence at Queen’s Dock, and he’s made an arrangement with the owner of the warehouse next to the those burnt ruins to store the goods when he moves them.
“The man is not what you would consider honest, nor intelligent, but he is loyal to a point, and greedy, and therefore dangerous,” he added.
“It’s hard to find a trustworthy man, one who can think for himself when the situation requires it,” he continued while Brodie put together the pieces of what he was telling him.
“I wouldn’t trust the two I sent out into the hallway farther than I could throw either one,” Brown admitted. “Or the one you obviously made it past downstairs. Then there is yourself.” He smiled.
“You’re just the sort I need. You have worked both sides. You know how the system works, the sort of people I deal with. You have the reputation for being straight up and not afraid of anything or anyone.”
Brodie watched him, the way the man stretched his legs out, hands still on the top of his desk, and that smile.
“Yer offering me employment?” he asked simply because it seemed ridiculous.
“I would call it a partnership,” Brown replied. “I want to expand my business interests, and it occurs to me that it couldbe profitable for both of us. And it’s not as if you are still with the MET. Barrels of wine would be considered only the beginning.”
A man with ambitions. He wanted to laugh, but didn’t.
“I have my own business, and it suits me well enough.”
“You haven’t asked me what I might know about the two murders—the Rose Murders, that fool at the Times called them.”
