“Wot is it?” he said to the hound as if he might answer.
Rupert whined then slowly made his way over to the fire. Brodie reached down and scratched him behind the ears as Mikaela had done hundreds of times.
“Aye, ye worthless vagrant, I miss her as well.”
When the fire at the stove had taken the chill off the room and he had drained the last of the whisky from his glass, Brodie went into the adjacent bedroom.
He removed his jacket and boots, set the revolver on the table beside the bed, then dropped down onto the bed. Exhaustion, the cold from the streets, and the death of an old friend still waiting to be answered overcame him as the hound curled on the rug beside the bed.
Retired Detective Chief Inspector Jeremiah Dawes closed the wrought-iron gate and walked to the entrance of the modest terraced house in Hammersmith and inserted the key in the lock.
He immediately caught the scent of supper as he hung his coat and umbrella on the coat stand. Leg of lamb, if he wasn’t mistaken, as he made his way to the sitting room.
“Good evening, Mrs. Marsh,” he called out a greeting. “I’ll be in the parlor.”
There was no answer, not that he expected one, as he entered the parlor, then went to the coal stove.
It was cold in here, he thought with a frown. Mrs. Marsh should have set the fire hours ago with the weather that had set in.
It was just the two of them, except for the occasional visit by one of the men he once worked with. His wife had passed several years before, as had Mrs. Marsh’s husband.
He had offered her a room, since she was there most days. It seemed a mutually beneficial solution when her rents were increased beyond what she could afford.
They got along. She managed the housekeeping and cooking, with Sundays off to visit her son. He kept to himself, meeting up with those he’d worked with, whose numbers were steadily growing fewer as the years passed.
Best get the fire lit, he thought.
He wadded paper from the day-old newspaper and placed it on the iron grate, then added pieces of coal from the bin beside the fireplace. He reached for the matches on the mantel.
“Eh?” he called out at a sound. “Is supper ready, Mrs. Marsh? It smells most delightful.
The blow caught him on the back of his shoulders and threw him against the mantel. He was dragged around, his attacker’s fists clasped over the lapels of his coat. Stunned, he stared at the man who pinned him against the mantel.
“Who are you?!” he demanded. “What do you want?”
“Take a look,” his attacker hissed.
The chief inspector fought to free himself as pale grey eyes glared back at him from sunken flesh.
“Take a long look and remember.”
“Whoever you are… There is nothing of value here.”
He was cut off once more.
“Nothing of value…” the man rasped. “That is what you made of me!”
The chief inspector shook his head.
“There must be some mistake. I don’t know you…”
“You know me…” the words lashed at him. “You knew me then, nothing more than a report on paper, for you and the others!”
He was shaken then, no match for the man who had him pinned, or the insanity he saw in those pale eyes.
“Take a long look, Chief Inspector, and remember,” his attacker hissed. “It will be your last.”
“No! I don’t know you…”
