I then went to the chalkboard and spent the next hour making my usual notes regarding the Ambersley inquiry, as well as the questions I wanted to ask.
When the clock struck one, I put my notebook in my travel bag, then donned my long coat.
“Come along then,” I told Rupert. “You will stay here. I don’t believe Bitsy would appreciate your handsome self.”
At the sidewalk below the office, I asked Mr. Cavendish to wave down a coach.
“When might you return, miss?” he inquired, squinting up at me through the misty rain from under the bill of his cap.
It was as I thought. He rarely inquired about such things. It did seem as though Brodie had put out the word to him regarding my travels about London in his absence.
Once again, I was not surprised. I informed Mr. Cavendish that I would return to Mayfair after meeting with our client. It was quite near St. John’s Wood.
“That would be before dark,” he said as a reminder.
As I was saying…
BRODIE
“What have the lads at the MET done about it?” Mr. Conner inquired as he sat across from Brodie in his small flat in Holborn.
“They are makin’ their usual inquiries,” Brodie replied. “It was late at night as he finished his rounds, and no one was around that late of the hour in the Circus.”
Conner made a crude sound. “Most of Abberline’s people wouldn’t know how to find themselves if they had a mirror. No criticism of Mr. Dooley, but he’s just one man.
“And you know as well as meself that Abberline will fuss about it for a while and then it will be put aside for other mattersas he has in the past. Ones that will look best on his record now that he’s been reinstated.
Brodie wasn’t surprised that Conner was aware of that.
“You know as well that there are few beside the lot of us who served with Constable Martin who care if the murderer is found—risks of the work and not a priority.”
Brodie nodded. “I though ye would want to know.”
Conner was thoughtful. “What of his widow? Was there any mention to her of someone he came across before that night? Some difficulty on the street?”
“Nothing that he told her.”
Conner slammed down the empty glass that had held a good portion of whisky earlier.
“Now, tell me lad, what is it you plan to do?”
“I will start with his usual route, speak with workers that were in the area late in the day who might have seen someone lurking about, or heard something about it on the street.”
“That is a lot for one man. It takes time, and you know the more time that passes, the less chance we have finding the bastard.”
“Aye,” Brodie replied.
“Two can cover the area in half the time.”
“You haven’t walked the street in over ten years,” Brodie pointed out, instead of reminding Conner of his age and the remnants of old injuries that still plagued him from his own time in uniform.
“You forget, lad. I’m a Scot the same as yerself, and as long as there’s a bit of the drink at the end of the day, I can still walk miles around you. Where do we begin?”
Brodie had known what his response would be, and the truth was that, having told him, he would be hard-pressed to prevent Conner from taking to the streets.
“We start at Regent Street. We’ll split the route from here.”
Conner poured another dram for them both.
