Mr. Cavendish had accompanied us, and presently made the rounds of those he knew, blocking the walk area with his platform, then moving on before putting in a take-away order for two pies: one for the hound.
“He gets right put out if I don’t bring one back for him,” he commented. “You spoilt him with that, Miss Mikaela.”
“Surely not,” I replied and had Brodie include the two take-away meals on our total.
After supper, we returned to the office. I poured us both a dram of Old Lodge whisky while Brodie built up the fire in the coal stove.
I handed him a glass, then opened my notebook and went to the chalkboard. I made a separate column for Brodie’s observations of the chief inspector’s body beside the list I had made earlier from the description in the police report for Constable Martin:
“The cut at the throat was the cause of death,” I said as I made the note.
“Eventually.”
I turned. Brodie had loosened the tie I had so expertly tied earlier.
“Eventually?”
“It was a slow wound.”
“What about the blotchy blue patches?” I made another note. I had not seen that before on a body.
“It happens as the body is dying.”
He said it in such a matter-of-fact manner, and I could only imagine other things he had seen in his time with the MET and before on the streets as a young boy.
“And the bruises along the ribs? It would seem that he was beaten as well.”
“More like he was kicked after he went down.”
Kicked? For what purpose since he was dying or already dead?
“What of the bruising on his neck in addition to the cut?” I then asked. “What would be the purpose of it with the other wounds?”
He replied with a single word.
“Rage.”
I was momentarily taken aback, the only sound in the office the hiss of the kettle on the coal stove.
“His throat was cut, but he fought back. When he went down, he was viciously kicked—unnecessary as ye said,” Brodie explained. “But it was more than that, far more. Whoever attacked him wanted to inflict as much pain and suffering as possible even as the man was dying.”
“For what reason?” I asked.
“So that Chief Inspector Dawes would know.”
What he described was horrible, almost beyond comprehension, such cruelty. As if…
“For revenge?” I whispered.
That dark gaze met mine. “Aye, revenge.”
“Over what?”
A question for which there was no answer. At least not yet.
In spite of the fire in the coal stove that warmed the office, I was cold to the bone.
“What of the substance on the jacket?” I then asked.
