A driver eventually arrived and eased his rig to a stop at the sidewalk. I gave the driver the destination, then climbed aboard.
Mr. Cavendish held the door open from the bottom of the gate.
“Up with you,” he called to Rupert, who joined me with great excitement as well as mud.
“He gets a bit put out when the weather is like this and he hasn’t been out and about.”
“Following instructions, are you, Mr. Cavendish?” I inquired as he closed the door of the coach.
He grinned. “The ride will do him good.”
The ride from the Strand to the embankment was not far; however, the weather had made a mess of things as usual during winter in London.
It was very near midday when we arrived. Rupert jumped down onto the walkway at the entrance. I paid the driver, and we entered the foyer of the New Scotland Yard.
Rupert frequently generates surprise when we are out and about. The young constable at the desk previously was quite taken aback and started to protest.
“We don’t allow animals inside the premises, miss.”
I rarely used my title, however…
“Lady Forsythe,” I clarified. “And it’s quite all right. He is with me. I would like to speak with Inspector Dooley if he is available, regarding an important matter.”
Somewhat flustered by the situation, the young constable picked up the handpiece of the telephone and put through a call.
It was only a matter of minutes until Inspector Dooley arrived, an amused expression on his face as he assured theyoung constable that it was quite all right for the hound to be allowed inside the offices of the ‘Yard.’
“You caused quite a stir, Miss Mikaela.”
He escorted me into a private office. Rupert followed dutifully along.
I explained that Brodie had left earlier while I remained at the office to assist as I could.
He nodded. “Brodie spoke of it. And we have a good many men, plain-clothed, brought on extra duty to assist as well.”
I explained the information I wanted that might be useful.
“What of Blackwood’s family? If they remained in London, might he go there?”
He shook his head. “We already made inquiries. His wife and son left London shortly after the end of the trial, and all but disappeared. We were not able to find any indication they might have returned.”
Convicted, sent to prison, his family destroyed by the scandal, and now Blackwood was taking his revenge.
“What hospital did he escape from? Have the people there been questioned?” I thought of the traces of morphine Brodie found on the chief inspector’s shirt.
“What was he being treated for? It could be important.”
“St. Bart’s is the hospital. St. Bartholemew, that is. It’s on my list for inquiries.”
I thanked him and stood to leave.
“I’ll accompany you, Miss Mikaela, though I doubt they’d allow that fine fellow inside,” he added with a glance down at the hound. He was able to acquire a plain-clothed driver with the MET.
St. Bartholemew was the oldest hospital in London, located in West Smithfield very near St. Paul’s Cathedral, an imposing grey stone building that filled an entire street block, the cathedral and graveyard nearby.
Prisoners, Mr. Dooley explained as we arrived at the main entrance, were taken there if there was an emergency or a prisoner became ill, which happened frequently. They were well guarded, treated for whatever illness, then returned to prison, though some did not as they did not survive.
What was the illness or emergency that brought Sir Edward Blackwood there? And what might it tell us?
