“There seems to be a bit of commotion, miss,” my driver commented as he pulled to a stop down the street. “I might say, not a place for a lady this time o’ the night.”
Commotion indeed, as a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, what appeared to be customers of the Old Bell spilling out of the tavern, more than one man with a tankard in hand. Along with those who had gathered from the street, as shouts came amid the commotion. I stepped down from the coach and overheard several comments as I approached.
“Never saw the like...”
“He must have insulted the wrong person...again.”
Where was Burke? Had he already arrived? Was he somewhere inside the tavern, or among those who had pushed their way onto the street?
I was jostled about as I elbowed through those who had gathered to the center of the crowd, amid other comments and the smell of stale ale and cigarette smoke. As I reached a slight parting of those gathered there, I glimpsed someone slumped on the sidewalk and stared down at the bloodied body.
It was Burke!
Was it a brawl? Some insult that someone else had taken offense to?
“What happened?” a man nearby asked.
“It’s about time to my way of thinkin’...” Someone else replied. “Less competition for the rest of us.”
“Someone cut him! Anyone see who it was?”
Not a brawl. Burke had been attacked, and the blood I saw was from a knife wound!
He was alive, that sneering gaze meeting mine through the chaos of bystanders and gawkers.
“Emma Fortescue,” he whispered, a guttural sound as blood appeared on his lips. He gestured for me to come closer, a surprisingly strong grip closing around my wrist as he thrust a stained note into my hand.
“Take it!” he snarled. “You’re the only one who can see it done!”
He coughed, a wretched sound filled with blood, as his head fell back to the sidewalk with a dying challenge.
“What...will you do now, Emma Fortescue?”
The shrill sound of the police whistle cut through the cold night air and the taunts and cruel jokes as he stared blankly back at me.
Theodolphus Burke, notorious reporter for the Times of London, was dead!
One
“There was a revolver in your possession,”the constable who sat across from me at the New Scotland Yard headquarters pointed out.
“And you were seen bending over the man, according to witnesses, Miss Forsythe.”
“After he had already been wounded,” I pointed out for the third time.
“What was your relationship with the victim?”
That particular question was far too tempting. My relationship with Burke?
Someone who had provided information on a past case, admittedly upon threat of dropping Burke to the floor. I had refrained from the temptation at the time.
“He provided information from time to time for inquiry cases I participate in with my associate.”
“You were seen speaking with him.”
Correction. “He spoke to me.”
“What did he say?”
