Inspector Dooley was there when he arrived and nodded a greeting from a table near the rear of the establishment where either one might make a quick departure if needed.
He had contacted Dooley the previous afternoon in an effort to learn what progress the MET had made with the robbery and murder of young Lord Salisbery.
Dooley had provided valuable information in the past for their inquiry cases, under the table so to speak, when Brodie’s direct inquiries at the MET had met with:
Obstacles. “We’re not allowed to give out that information, Mr. Brodie.”
Delays. “I put in the request, sir, but there’s been no response from high up as yet.”
Or no response at all.
As if the information had simply disappeared into the London fog, when time was most important, and other lives might very well have been in danger.
More often than not the information was important, and they had both avoided any confrontation with those “higher up” in the matter with a common excuse that the information was learned from “another source” that remained nameless when questioned.
To his way of thinking, the most important thing was solving the crime. If it required bending the rules from time to time, or acquiring information that might not otherwise be available, he was not one to lose sleep over the matter.
He took the chair opposite Dooley that faced out to the entrance if anyone from the service should arrive at the coffeehouse. He was not of a mind to put his friend in a difficult situation.
Mr. Dooley waved down the man behind the counter to bring another cup of coffee.
“The case you inquired about has been difficult,” Dooley commented, the accent of years in the Irish countryside still there after over twenty years in London.
“Robbery?” Brodie asked as the coffee warmed his belly.
“That would seem to be the motive. The young man apparently resisted…”
And robbery, frequent on the streets of London, particularly late at night, became murder.
“What about the club attendant?”
“He was questioned. A driver arrived as usual when the call was put out. The attendant saw the young man to the coach, as usual. Then they were on their way.”
“Private coach?” Brodie asked.
Dooley shook his head. “One of the city services. It seems the young man wanted to avoid any scrutiny and usually had a driver called for.”
Brodie sat back in his chair, turning over the information.
“Did the attendant notice anything unusual in Salisbery’s manner?”
“Only that he was well into his cups when he left.”
“What time was that?”
“Near three in the morning. He’d been gaming most of the night, and…other activities.”
“A woman?”
Dooley nodded. “The usual ‘menu’ according to the attendant. He said she goes by the name of Lady Dumont.”
Lady Dumont. It was not the first time that such a woman would stylize herself as a 'lady', except the'lady'he was married too. Titles had a way of increasing the appeal, the clientele, not to mention the compensation.
“However,” Dooley continued, “we have not been able to question her in the matter. She seems to have disappeared, perhaps due to the events of the evening and a reluctance to be questioned by the police.”
“Where does the‘lady’ live?”
“Lady Dumont?” I commented as Brodie recounted his meeting with Mr. Dooley.
