I glanced across the Strand. Rupert had a working arrangement with the man who sold sandwiches from his cart. In exchange for food, the hound stood guard against anyone making off without paying for their sandwich.
He was an enterprising sort.
I inquired about Miss Effie, as she and Mr. Cavendish had recently married, something that always brought a smile to his face. However, the smile was not there at present.
“Well enough, and workin’ her shift at the public house,” he replied, somewhat distracted, which made me think there might be some difficulty there.
A newsboy appeared with the usual enthusiasm for a sale, the last issues of the morning edition of the Times tucked under his arm.
He could have been no more than nine or ten, with dark hair that fell across his forehead and dark eyes that reminded me of someone else.
“Paper for you, miss?” he inquired.
“Be off with you,” Mr. Cavendish told him.
I had not read the morning paper that included the crime sheet before leaving Mayfair and thought there might be an update from the MET in the matter of Constable Martin’s death.
I took a coin from the pocket of my skirt.
The newsboy’s smile was restored as he took the coin and handed me the morning paper, then ran off after another sale.
“I noticed that Mr. Brodie returned the evening past,” I commented to Mr. Cavendish after he left.
He nodded, not quite meeting my gaze, an obvious indication that he knew more than he was sharing.
“Did he say where he was off to next in the matter of the case he’s pursuing?”
“Mr. Brodie keeps things to himself as you well know, miss.”
Hmmm, yes, I thought. Definitely something there that he was not telling me. Perhaps on Brodie’s instructions?
Brodie had been particularly reserved since Constable Martin’s death and insisted that I continue with the Ambersley case, which was now resolved, while he made his usual inquiries.
I was aware that Constable Martin had been a good friend as well as partner when Brodie first joined the MET, and then afterward when he became an inspector.
Though he rarely mentioned his time with the Metropolitan, he had spoken often of Constable Martin, usually when in the company of Mr. Dooley or Mr. Conner, who had both worked with him as well.
“You will let me know if you hear from him,” I reminded Mr. Cavendish.
He nodded, “That I will, miss.” Still without meeting my gaze.
I turned toward the lift by the alcove, then paused as I heard my name through the noise of coaches, carts, and wagons at the Strand.
“Lady Forsythe? I’ve a message from the Home Office.”
It was George Endicott, one of several dispatchers from the messenger service Brodie and I frequently used.
He was young, fair, with a warm brown gaze that bordered on flirtation, and a most engaging smile.
“That would be for me,” Mr. Cavendish attempted to intercept Mr. Endicott.
George looked at me somewhat confused.
“Lady Forsythe?”
“I’ll take it, if you please.”
He handed me the envelope, then the clipboard he carried.
