It seemed that Brodie was a master in the art of picking locks.
I heard two distinct clicks as I carefully worked the pin inside the lock, andvoilà! The lock opened.
With a look about to make certain that I hadn’t been discovered, I pushed open the door and quickly stepped inside the office.
There was a shade on the inside window that looked out onto the hallway. I carefully pulled it down so as not to be seen, then turned to Burke’s desk.
It was covered with scattered papers—a torn-off calendar page from two days earlier, scribbled reminders to himself on a calendar on the desk pad, as well as notes he’d received, and others he’d made in a hasty scrawl.
At the risk of being caught, I turned on the desk lamp and started my search with the calendar pages, searching for any reference that might include that last evening at the Old Bell, as well as any reference to Adele DeMille.
More than once there was a sound beyond the door as someone passed by. I stopped, then began again.
Somewhat of a surprise, I discovered a receipt from Western Laundry Co., Fulham, among the scattered papers. It itemized several items of ladies’ garments!
Did the receipt have something to do with Adela DeMille’s disappearance?
To my knowledge, there was not a Mrs. Burke. And I couldn’t imagine a female ‘acquaintance’ otherwise.
Although, as Brodie had previously pointed out about an acquaintance of his own, Mr. Brown, a known criminal sort, there might very well be a female companion tucked away somewhere.
What followed was a question as to whether I might be part of that distinguished sisterhood. Tucked away indeed!
With that half-smile that always meant there was more than what was being said, Brodie had informed me that one would hardly consider me to be ‘tucked away.’ He had then added that I was not the sort.
All well and good, yet I did wonder what ‘sort’ I was.
“Bothersome, headstrong,” he’d commented. “Someone who can burn water and with the habit of taking herself off into places she shouldn’t.”
I had ignored the rest of it. There was no arguing with a stubborn Scot. It was an argument I could not win.
I continued my search of Burke’s desk and discovered a note on the desk calendar for a meeting at O.B. with M.F. Obviously a reminder of his meeting with myself at the Old Bell. I then searched the desk drawers.
One was filled with folders that contained copies of past columns he’d written, another, unsurprisingly, with two freshly laundered shirts. It seemed as though Burke might have lived at the Times’ office. That might explain his somewhat scruffy appearance.
Then, completely unexpected, in the bottom drawer...a book! While Burke was somewhat intelligent, I did not consider him the sort who would read a book of an evening before a warm fire.
I half expected some dry tome about battle campaigns or the history of London as I retrieved it. I stared at the title on the cover:
The Case of the Missing Children,
a novel by E. Fortescue
It was one of my novels, with Emma Fortescue as my main character! Written after I began participating in inquiry cases with Brodie!
To say that I was surprised was a vast understatement, particularly given Burke’s opinion of my writing efforts and what he had described as ‘woman’s drivel.’
I hesitated, then opened it and discovered something that was an even greater shock. He had made notes in the margins on several pages. The comments varied from criticism to what might have been considered reluctant praise—‘somewhat entertaining.’
I didn’t take the time to read further—there was too much risk of being discovered. I stuffed the novel into my travel bag along with the receipt and the desk calendar, with the hope that they might tell me more.
I then searched the cabinet behind the desk, yet found nothing there that might be helpful. I glanced at the wall clock. I had been there for more than half an hour, and by this time more staff would be arriving for their morning shift.
At another sound from the hall, I turned off the electric lamp and waited for any additional sound that someone lingered outside.
I heard nothing more and quickly gathered my travel bag, went to the door and listened again before stepping out into the hallway.
There was the faint sound of conversation from the reporters’ floor, only a handful of steps beyond. I glanced toward the stairwell.
