“As I said, it’s best to let others handle this. I’ll send word when the day for the service is announced,” he added as the door opened and Mikaela Forsythe entered the office.
Mr. Dooley tipped the brim of his hat in greeting. Then, with a look at Brodie, left.
MIKAELA
“Mr. Dooley seemed most serious. Is there some difficulty?” Icommented as he left with a serious expression and a brief nod. Very much out of character for the man.
“A matter he wanted me to know about,” Brodie replied. “A man I worked with when I was with the MET was attacked and killed last night.”
To anyone else, the way he said it would have seemed unemotional, matter-of-fact, a bit of news, nothing more. It was much like listening to someone giving a report.
Yet, I sensed something else, in that way I had learned. There was most definitely something more there.
Brodie was not one to allow his emotions to show. A habit learned through early loss on the streets of Edinburgh, before he came to London, I could only assume.
However, in the time we had worked together, I had learned to sense things in a mannerism, the way a mask—his police inspector demeanor from his years with the MET—slipped into place. It was there now.
I watched as he neatly gathered several papers together, then tucked them into a folder, his mouth a straight line.
He rose from behind the desk, then went to the file cabinet and put the folder away. And it was there, that hint of his conversation with Mr. Dooley in the less-than-subtle slam of the cabinet drawer.
“You knew the man well?” I inquired.
“It’s difficult not to know someone when ye walk the streets with ’em for more than four years,” he bit off.
I sensed the undercurrent of pain and saw the anger in the dark brows that drew together over his dark gaze.
There had been few in his life whom he’d respected or trusted. His friend Munro was one who came from Edinburgh with him all those years before. And oddly enough it also included my great-aunt, Lady Antonia Montgomery. That was a most interesting situation. And then there was myself.
We had learned to trust one another through the various cases we had pursued. And then there was the respect.
In spite of my resolve to remain an unmarried woman, there had been an undeniable attraction. We might have carried on as some did, but he would not have it and had proposed marriage, taking me by surprise.
He was undeniably a handsome man, tall, with dark hair and beard, dark eyes, and the look of someone who could be dangerous if he chose. And there was that other thing that had come highly recommended, from my great-aunt of all persons.
“Constable Martin?” I asked, guessing the victim must be the man he had spoken of often. Someone who, as Brodie explained, had saved him from himself, curbing his recklessness, a habit of rushing into a situation that he had learned on the streets.
“Last night, near the Circus.”
I was aware how much he respected Constable Martin, as well as trusted him, and sensed the deep loss.
“There will be a service,” he added. “Mr. Dooley will let me know when that will be.”
“He was married,” I knew that as well from conversations about those early days with the MET.
He looked at me for the first time, and I saw the pain there.
From what he had told me, Constable Martin and his wife never had children. I didn’t know about other family, but I sensed that he might have been very close with both of them.
“I will call on his wife when it’s appropriate.”
I touched his shoulder and could feel the tension beneath the fabric of his shirt.
“I should think that she might want to hear from you now.”
The mask slipped. I saw his answer in the way the anger left that dark gaze.
“I could send round a message.”
