Anyone at the gallery could easily see me as I left. I hesitated, then turned the opposite direction that led away from Burke’s office, past two other doors, and then to that single door at the end of the hallway.
More than once Burke had escaped meeting with me by the very same door that I knew opened out of the building to a set of iron stairs that led to the alleyway below. I had silently cursed him at the time.
However, I was now grateful for that escape as I stepped out onto the wrought-iron landing. I descended the steps to the alleyway below, where newsboys had gathered to collect the late morning edition of the newspaper to be sold on the streets.
I ignored their curious stares and continued around the corner to the street and returned to my waiting coach.
“Good to see you, miss,” Mr. Jarvis greeted me. “Had a constable pass by a while ago and tell me that I would need to move on when he came back round.”
I climbed aboard and gave him the address of the laundry company in Fulham.
“Not a proper area for some,” he commented. “And some distance this late in the morning.”
Nevertheless, I insisted.
Along with Mr. Cavendish, it did seem that Brodie might have something to do with Mr. Jarvis’s comment. Not a place for my sort!
With the usual street traffic found across all of London, it was well past midday when we finally arrived at Broughton Road. Itteemed with the usual traffic of wagons and carts, along with vans with the company name painted on the side that arrived as others departed, no doubt for afternoon deliveries.
Mr. Jarvis maneuvered the coach through the congestion, cutting off another driver in the process with a colorful exchange of words as he refused to move the coach, and the other driver was forced to wait for traffic to open.
More comments followed, along with a V-gesture of the fingers, as the other driver finally moved past.
“Apologies, miss,” he said as I stepped down from the coach. “There’s some blokes that ain’t got no manners. If you want me to come along...?”
With a smile to myself at the encounter, I assured him that it was not necessary.
“I’ll be right here if there’s a need.”
The laundry was in a working-class area of London near the river, a large cut-stone building with signage at the entrance that indicated both laundry and dry- cleaning services for the Grand Hotel and Brown’s Hotel, as well as business professionals across London.
A woman appeared at the front counter.
“I’m hoping you can help me with some information.”
I caught the look of surprise along with obvious curiosity. I showed her the receipt and asked if she could tell me where the laundry was to be delivered.
“We don’t get many personal orders. Most come from the hotels and professional sorts. This was from a customer in the business district, Fleet Street.”
She retrieved a ledger, found the receipt number, and looked up.
“Is there some problem with the order, miss?”
She appeared to assume the order had been for myself. I made up the excuse that I was concerned that it might have been lost.
“Can you tell me where it was to be delivered?”
“According to the customer’s instructions the woman’s clothes was to be delivered in Southwark, at Borough High Street. That would have been an extra run across the river, but the customer paid extra for it.
“The customer claimed the woman was not able to get out and about. The extra fee he paid more than covered the driver’s time to have it delivered.”
“Is the driver here now?”
“That be Tommy Noonan. He’s not here now. Out on delivery to the hotels. They go through a lot of laundry with guests comin’ in.”
I wanted very much to speak with him. What might he be able to tell me about that delivery of women’s clothes in Southwark?
“When will he return?”
