“Morphine. I’ve seen it before.”
“And his boots? You seemed most interested in them.”
A faint smile. “Ye dinna miss anything.”
“What were you looking for?”
“A mark I noticed in the ash on the floor before the hearth at the residence.”
“What sort of mark?”
“The mark of a work boot.”
“Worn by the murderer?”
He nodded. “Very possible. It would seem that whoever wore those boots was in that room with the Chief Inspector Dawes.”
If there was more, he didn’t share it. At least not now.
“It could be useful to follow the information our friend, Mr. Burke, provided.”
“He is not a friend,” I corrected him. “The only reason he is willing to provide information is because he sees how it might benefit himself, or under threat.”
“I would imagine that ye managed that quite well.”
“We do have an understanding,” I admitted. “And he is quite put off by Rupert.”
“What about the information he provided regarding inquiries the Chief Inspector Dawes was making? Might there be something there?”
He was thoughtful. “Perhaps.”
I returned to the board and made additional notes from things we had discussed, still unable to rid myself of that cold feeling deep inside.
Two men had been murdered, their wounds and manner of death similar.
Were they connected? And for what reason had Chief Inspector Dawes inquired about a man by the name of Blackwood?
Was he working a case of his own, even though he was retired? Or did his death have nothing to do with the inquiries that Burke had assisted him with?
“Come away, lass. We’ll not find the answers there tonight. I have inquiries I’ll make in the morning. Perhaps I will learn something there from what Mr. Burke told ye.”
I undressed in the adjacent room that had become our bedchamber then slipped into bed. The window glass rattled as the wind came up, and Brodie was there. He pulled me against him.
“Yer cold as ice,” he commented as a warm hand moved over my shoulder then down my arm.
“Is that a complaint?” I replied.
“It’s enough to put a man off.”
He lay against my back, his arm about my waist, in that way that had become habit. A welcome habit that I reached for at the end of the day, my hand curled in his. Quite odd, I thought for someone who had decided she didn’t need anyone.
I turned toward him.
“That’s never bothered you before.”
“Ye are a cheeky lass,” he whispered.
It was late in the evening, the courts of the Old Bailey closed for the day, trials concluded, sentences handed out, as the last of those who worked inside completed their roles in the name of justice. Constables in dark blue uniforms, clerks, and judges leaving as the horde of cleaning people arrived at the entrance.
