I did notice that the envelope had my name on it as well as Brodie’s.
“If you’ll sign here. I was told to deliver it straightaway.”
There was that engaging smile again.
When I offered him the usual coin for the delivery, he shook his head.
“It was already taken care of by Mr. Cavendish when he sent the message earlier. Good day.”
Most interesting. That did explain his absence earlier from his usual place at the alcove.
I looked down at the envelope after George left.
“From the Home Office?”
Mr. Cavendish seemed uncomfortable.
“Beg your pardon, miss. He said there was no need for you to know, what with the other case you were working on.”
“I understand. He had you deliver the message to the courier service. And how were you to reach him when this arrived?”
“He said that he’d be round for it.”
I tucked the newspaper under my arm. With the envelope in hand, I returned to the office.
The envelope from the Home Office was apparently in response to something Brodie had requested regarding his inquiry into the death of Constable Martin.
It was addressed to both of us, no doubt owing to our previous inquiry cases with assistance from the office of the Home Secretary, and my acquaintance with Mr. Asquith through my great-aunt.
I had laid the envelope on Brodie’s desk, then went to my own desk with the morning paper.
I scanned the front page, which contained a fair amount of gossip, along with an interesting article regarding a certain disquieting event in Paris during a political conference that hadbeen disturbed by an explosion that had come dangerously close to injuring several attendees.
The names that appeared were representatives of heads of state from several countries across Europe.
It did seem as if the situation on the Continent might be simmering with an undercurrent of unrest.
I had travelled through most of the large cities in Europe on my adventures and had seen some of the discontent in groups that gathered at the rail stations and at government buildings.
I understood the reasons for discontent, yet the deaths of innocent people caught up in the violence were enormously sad and highly disturbing.
The rest of the news of the day was the usual sort—the ‘personals’ page with notices submitted for those seeking companionship, marriage, and one soliciting for a person to share accommodation. I could only imagine what that might mean. I then turned to the crime sheet.
Brodie was convinced that I had a peculiar fascination for crime, yet there was the possibility that there might be information regarding the case he was investigating, considering that the death of Constable Martin was about one of their own.
I sat up as I noticed an additional paragraph on the attack and death in the late hours of the day before, of Mr. J. Dawes in Hammersmith, retired Chief Inspector with the Metropolitan Police. It ended with a statement that an investigation by the MET was presently in progress.
That name was familiar. Brodie had mentioned it only days before when he received word from Mr. Dooley about the death of Constable Martin. Jerome Dawes had been Chief Inspector of Police where both Brodie and Constable Martin had been assigned when Brodie served with the MET!
Was Brodie aware of what had now happened? I glanced at the envelope that had been delivered by courier.
Mr. Asquith, the Home Secretary, had been most accommodating in the past in difficult situations.
The hound made a sound that might have been disapproval…if one believed that animals were capable of such things.
“What are you looking at?”
The hound simply rolled his eyes.
