We returned to the office.
The coal fire had burned low and it had grown cold with that sharpness that usually came before snow.
Brodie put on more coal as I removed my coat, then went to the board.
“Motive, means, opportunity.” Chalk in hand, I repeated what I had learned early on in our investigations.
According to Brodie it was always there, it was simply a matter of discovering each one and that would reveal who had committed the crime. And in trying to find each of those during an inquiry case, we were able to solve the case. Usually.
“Yer talking to yerself, lass,” he pointed out as he came up beside me and studied the board.
“There are times when it is helpful. It helps me think. It has to be there,” I replied. “It’s just a matter of going back over everything. We already know whatmeanswere used to kill both Charlotte Mallory and Elizabeth Cameron.
“Theopportunitywas quite obvious, when each was alone, returning from an appointment or having met earlier with friends. Not robbery, nor assault,” I continued.
“What then was themotive? Who would want to kill two young women, and why? And a red rose, like a bloody calling card! What does that mean?”
We then went back over everything we had learned about the murders:
Two young women encountered alone and then murdered.
Two families devastated by those murders; Daniel Eddington left to mourn the loss of the woman he hoped to wed.
The letter Charlotte Mallory had received from Cora Walmsley.
The discovery that Johnathan Walmsley had been paid a substantial amount of money to leave London years before.
The fact that the Harris warehouse manager, Mr. Carney, had been paid a stipend each year since the tragic death of Amelia Harris.
Rumors from a man Brodie knew that Carney had built a smuggling operation at Queen’s Dock on the tidal basin not used by the larger cargo ships.
That bank ledger with those entries for transactions, current as of the last month.
“It’s here. I know it is,” I insisted with growing frustration as I stared at the board.
The question was, what was it?
The dram of whisky Brodie had poured for each of us when we returned to the office, along with the heat from the fireplace, had begun to have its way with me. He took the tumbler from my hand.
“Ye’ll not find it tonight. Yer tired. Go to bed,” he told me.
He was right, of course. I had never been able to solve a problem by chasing it down. It was often necessary to leave it, then come back at it.
“And yourself?” I asked as I gave in to the fact that I wouldn’t find the answer that night and that Brodie knew me so well.
“I’ll be along straight away,” he replied.
‘Straight away’ turned out to be several hours, as I wakened and discovered the bed quite cold beside me.
A light glowed under the door to the adjoining office. I pulled the comforter around me and left the bed.
Brodie was at his desk, a thoughtful expression on his face as he stared at the chalkboard.
The fire in the coal stove had burned low and the room was quite cold. I glanced at the clock on the wall next to the desk. It was well after three o’clock in the morning.
“Have you found something?”
“There is no such thing as a coincidence,” he replied.
