There were no glaring headlines about Burke’s death, no top sheet announcement of the grisly murder that had robbed the city of a valuable source of information, even when that information was often glaringly lacking in factual information. Such was Burke’s reputation.
Mr. Cavendish had waved down a driver, Mr. Jarvis, who accompanied me on a good many of my travels across London. I gave him the destination of the Times offices on Fleet Street, then climbed inside.
When we arrived, I directed him to an adjacent street where we would be less conspicuous and asked him to wait.
I stepped down and waited in the alcove of a shop that was not yet open and watched the entrance of the Times for several moments.
As I was about to step off the sidewalk, a coach pulled up to the entrance and a man stepped down. I immediately recognizedArthur Walter, the publisher of The Times, whom I had met previously.
I waited until he had entered the building. Inside the foyer, he exchanged a brief conversation with the young attendant.
I waited until Mr. Walter had entered the hallway toward the lifts that would take him to the second floor. As he disappeared, I crossed the street and entered the building.
The attendant looked up and smiled a greeting.
“Good morning, miss. You’re out bright and early.”
I smiled as well with the excuse I had planned for just such an encounter. “An advertisement that I want to place.”
“Ah, yes, that would be at the third floor. Mr. Henry can assist you.
Then, on the chance that it might provide information, “Is Mr. Burke about this morning?”
That grin once more. “Not as yet. He was working a story that’s kept him out and about of late.”
“Yes, of course.”
That told me two things—if Mr. Walter knew what had happened to his most popular reporter, the king of the scandal sheets, there was no indication that this young man was aware.
Admittedly, it was only a matter of time, of course. The longer Burke was absent, the more likely the truth would be discovered.
It also told me that Burke had been spending considerable time chasing down a story. Was that story the one about Adele DeMille that he had been so keen for me to know about?
I thanked the young man and turned toward the stairs instead of the lift.
The stairwell connected to the landing on the second floor very near Burke’s private office. It was also some distance apart from the publisher’s office.
I paused before reaching the second floor and listened for any sounds that might come from the floor and the reporters’ gallery just beyond. It was quiet, and I continued the last few steps up to the landing.
I had previously been to Burke’s office when I had attempted to learn information about a particularly difficult case. Burke had been his usual impossible self, with one deprecating remark after another, along with his usual scathing comment about a ‘woman’s place.’
That had not gone over particularly well. Still, as I now approached the door to his office, there was a sense of great loss.
Depending on how one looked at it, it could be said that Burke had either elevated the art of journalism, or possibly not. In the very least, he caused people to read the newspaper, most particularly his comments about society in general and the scandals he exposed. And in spite of his condescending remarks toward me, he had once provided a rather backhanded compliment.
“I do look forward to our encounters, Lady Forsythe. You are the only woman I have ever encountered who is well-read and can intelligently hold her own in conversation. But I will not divulge my source in the matter. I do have a reputation to maintain. As a matter of fact, I may write a book about my adventures.”
As I say, condescending and full of himself.
With a glance in both directions down the hallway, I tried the latch on the door to his office. Not surprisingly, it was locked, no doubt when he departed for the Old Bell that night before, when I was to meet him.
I glanced about once more to make certain no one else was about.
I had acquired some unusual but useful skills working inquiry cases with Brodie. One of those was the ability to pick a lock. I removed a pin from my hair.
There was an obvious skill to picking a lock as he had pointed out, that required a calm manner, a sensitive touch, patience, and a good ear to hear the mechanisms inside a lock as they clicked, giving way one by one.
There were different types of locks—early ones that could be difficult because of time and the debris that made its way inside, although a well-worn lock might also easily give way. Then there were more modern locks that were improved with a complicated set of mechanisms that were often difficult to manipulate. However, a lock on a door inside a building often proved to open quite easily.
