I knew of it in that way that gossip made its way around, even across the channel. But I didn’t know the details of it, as I had been at school in Paris at the time. I did remember Aunt Antonia writing about it in one of her letters.
“I asked him if he was writing a book,” Burke continued. “He denied it with an excuse that it was for other reasons.”
“Were you able to provide the information he wanted?” I inquired.
“The archive at the Gazette was somewhat lacking, there was only the mention of it and the trial that followed. The writers at the Gazette were not of a high quality. It was the reason I left just prior for the Times.”
Of course, I thought.
“When did you last meet with your source?” I then inquired.
“Tuesday, the week past.”
“Did he share anything with you about being threatened by anyone?”
“That is all I will tell you, Lady Forsythe. Out of respect for the poor man.”
I retrieved the newspaper and tucked it into my bag.
It would be helpful to make my own inquiries when it came to the Times archive. I was already aware that Burke would not share information.
“Will you now please leave?” he asked. “I have a deadline.”
Undoubtedly for one of the lurid, sensational stories that he was known for.
“You have been most helpful,”
“And take the filthy animal with you!” he called after.
The ‘filthy animal’ that was somewhat cleaner than usual waited until I left the office, then bounded after me.
It was afternoon when I returned to the office, the usual wintry darkness settling in over the Strand with streetlights gleaming through the gloom of the fog that had set in, the bloodyhaar,as a Scot I knew quite well called it. Lights shone in the second story windows of the office as well.
The hound leapt down as the cab rolled to a stop.
“When did Mr. Brodie return?” I inquired as I stepped down.
“A short while ago,” Mr. Cavendish informed me. “I gave him the envelope. He’s been up there since, but said he would need a driver before end of day.”
It seemed that he intended to visit the Yard yet that afternoon. I gathered my skirt in hand and ran up the stairs.
There were times when the stairs were far more expedient and held less danger than the lift stalling between the ground and second floors, although I wouldn’t have admitted that to Brodie.
He preferred the stairs and insisted upon using them, even in nasty weather, stating more than once that he had no use for a box that might trap him. I had pointed out that there was a roof hatch for such situations.
“Which would not be necessary if lifts worked the way they’re supposed to,” he had grumbled in response.
He could be quite stubborn.
He was in the room adjacent to the outer office that served as a private bedroom when we stayed over.
I heard the distinct sound of the wardrobe door being closed rather sharply, then Brodie emerged wearing dress wooltrousers, a white shirt that he tucked into the waist of the trousers, and a vest, obviously thrown on somewhat hastily as his shirt gaped open, unbuttoned.
A stirring sight to be certain.
He looked up, a frown showing through the obvious fatigue of the past few days, from wherever his inquiries regarding Constable Martin’s murder had taken him.
He fumbled with his tie, a frequent battle that he usually conceded. I laid my travel bag on my desk and crossed the office to where he struggled.
