I understood the reasons.
“I was thinking there might be something to learn from the hospital,” I suggested.
“It would be easy enough to inquire. Mr. Dooley would have information for that. It could be useful.”
I smiled as I looked over at him.
“Aye, perhaps.”
It was a compromise of sorts. Rather than sitting on my hands, so to speak.
“If ye learn something important, give it to Mr. Cavendish. He’ll find Mr. Brown and get it to me. And yer to take the hound with ye.”
“Of course, dear.”
There was that smile just at one corner of his mouth.
He checked the revolver and put it in his coat pocket, and then he was gone, down the stairs with a final word to Mr. Cavendish, then across the street until he disappeared.
I added notes regarding the case to the chalkboard and frowned as I read the names of the three persons who had been murdered: Constable Martin, Chief Inspector Dawes, retired, and Magistrate Judge Cameron.
Three of four men responsible all those years before for catching Edward Blackwood after that horrific incident, bringing him to trial, finding him guilty, and then sentencing him to prison.
And yet there remained one more man who had led the investigation when he was still with the MET.
A cold shiver ran through me at the thought that Brodie’s name might be added to that list.
What was it that drove someone to murder after all this time?
Revenge, as Brodie said, seemed the most logical.
Blackwood had been ruined financially, through his own devices to be certain. An argument and duel that followed tookthe other man’s life, though Blackwood had pleaded that he was acting in self-defense.
The man had lost everything, a dark reminder of my own father’s dismal end.
What of Blackwood’s family? What had happened to them? If they were still in London, would he go there?
What more might Mr. Dooley be able to tell me?
The weather had decided to remain miserable, wet, and cold.
I thought of Brodie. It was some comfort that he was to meet up with Munro. I was aware they were quite capable. The streets of London were familiar to both of them. Still, three men involved with that case years before were now dead…
Rather than return to Mayfair for clothing appropriate to the weather, I borrowed one of Brodie’s jumpers and pulled it on over my undergarments. It carried a bit of the scent of cinnamon and made me feel somehow close to him.
Foolish, of course, yet it was perfect with my walking skirt for the weather. I appreciated the warmth on my neck—women’s fashions could be quite lacking and not at all appropriate for trekking about London in the ice and mud.
I added my long coat, then gathered my travel bag with my notebook and umbrella.
The foul weather did not disappoint as I locked the office door and navigated the icy steps to the sidewalk by the street.
Mr. Cavendish emerged from the alcove that now also included a coal stove against the cold to warm himself, and Rupert as well. There had been breakfast earlier from the Public House.
“Will you be needin’ a driver, Miss Mikaela?” he inquired, which was his barely discreet way of inquiring where I was off to, after Brodie had no doubt spoken to him.
“New Scotland Yard on a matter that might be of assistance to the case.”
He nodded, paddled out to the edge of the sidewalk and let out a shrill whistle over the usual noise on the street of coaches and cabs that paid no heed to the weather when a fare was to be earned.
