“Fortunate the bone there is not broken. You have a hard head.”
I could have made a comment to that, however, now was probably not the moment for that, with Brodie bound up around his ribs once more and still in a great deal of pain.
“And the ribs? Very likely two or three cracked,” Mr. Brimley continued.
He had loosened the wrap and inspected the bruise over Brodie’s ribs that was now the size of a grapefruit.
“But they all seem to be intact, though you might have torn the muscle there. That could also account for the pain. The syrup I’ve provided will give relief for a while.” He looked over at me.
“Every eight hours will help with the pain, if you can persuade him to take it.”
Laudanum. Brodie had refused to take any.
“I’ve seen wot it does to a man,” he had replied.
Mr. Brimley looked at me as he prepared to leave.
“There will be considerable pain over the next several days. I wish you luck, Miss Forsythe.”
“I’ll see that he behaves himself,” Mr. Conner assured him.
He had returned shortly after we arrived back at the office.
He was able to learn the name of the London company that had provided coach service near the Old Bell tavern the night Burke was murdered.
As he told us what he had learned, he went to the chalkboard and looked at the notes I added the previous evening.
“The man I spoke with pulled the record from that night. The customer paid an extra fare for the amount of time to take him to the pub, and then waited until he was ready to leave.”
“Were ye able to learn the name of the driver?” Brodie replied as I handed him a glass with a dram of Old Lodge whisky.
Perhaps not the best ‘medicine,’ yet one that he accepted and quickly downed.
“A man by the name of Morse,” Mr. Conner replied, “who lives in a tenement near Covent Garden. He’s out and about now on his daily route, but he returns to the yard with his rig by early evening. I’ll be there to ask him a few questions.”
Brodie had made a telephone call to Inspector Dooley at the Yard when we first returned to the office, to let him know what we had learned that morning.
In that same conversation, Mr. Dooley shared there had been several inquiries from newspapers about the ‘incident’ at the Old Bell, with rumors and speculation regarding Burke’s condition and whereabouts.
He had forestalled any comment for now, but then cautioned that the time would come very soon when a statement would have to be made.
I thought it more than a little ironic that Burke was now the subject of both rumor and speculation.
In that same conversation, Brodie had informed Mr. Dooley that we were pursuing additional information regarding possible motives for the attack.
“Portman Square?” Mr. Conner commented as he read the entries I had made on the chalkboard after that telephone conversation ended.
“Not where ye might think to find a common tailor.”
Brodie agreed. “Aye, and it was obvious that he recognized the image on that button. He may even know the customer it was made for, who was obviously at the residence in St. John’s Wood.”
“A gold button worth a year’s wages for any other man. And just one button. I’ve seen the toffs over the years dressed in their finery with no thought to the man who made those fine clothes.”
It was not the first time that I was made aware of the disparity between the class that I had been born into and the one both Mr. Conner and Brodie lived in.
“No offense, Miss Forsythe,” he added.
Brodie’s dark gaze met mine.
