At that moment, I would have wagered on disbelief with a frown thrown in for good measure.
“I assume this has nothing to do with the manor ye were to visit today with her ladyship,” he commented.
I assured him it did not, as Inspector Dooley arranged for me to leave, with a faint smile he attempted to hide beneath his moustache.
“It’s not every man who must retrieve his wife from Scotland Yard,” Brodie commented somewhat drily as we crossed the city after leaving the Yard.
“What the devil were ye thinkin’, meetin’ the man at the Old Bell?”
There were moments when all those years with the MET slipped into our conversations as I explained the note that I had received earlier from Burke requesting for us to meet, and then that blood-stained note with the name of a woman in St. John’s Wood.
At present, I was beginning to feel as though I was being interrogated once again, after I had already provided the details to the constable and then to Mr. Dooley.
“Obviously not a social call, considerin’ the man’s reputation,” Brodie replied. “Wot about when ye arrived?”
I explained the scene in front of the Old Bell with Burke already seriously injured, and that irritating challenge even as he lay dying.
“Do ye have any thought what he meant?”
“What will you do now, Emma Fortescue?”
“It seemed very odd,” I admitted. “Very much like a challenge.”
“Who the devil is Adele DeMille at St. John’s Wood?” Brodie demanded.
I was aware of the name. “An actress at the Drury, as I recall, in a play last year—As You Like It.”
He looked at me as if I might have taken a step away from sanity.
“The name of the play,” I explained. “Though I do not recall any recent roles.” Although I did not keep up with those things, aside from my acquaintance with my friend Templeton.
“It was obviously important enough that Burke wanted me to have the information, and it may have something to do with his murder.”
“Then ye are determined to learn more in spite of the fact that the man had a good many enemies, any one of whom might have wanted him dead.”
We were still ‘discussing’ the merits of making our own inquiries when we arrived at the office.
“There was a reason he wanted me to have that information,” I pointed out, disgusting and unscrupulous as the man was.
“It could be helpful to the investigation by the MET,” I added to make my point. “We will most certainly make Mr. Dooley aware of anything we learn.
“It would seem reasonable to visit St. John’s Wood and see what we might learn from Adele DeMille. Or we might simply continue our search for an appropriate residence. Aunt Antonia did mention that she knew of still another residence in St. James’s, which might be available.”
We had reached the office. Brodie’s response was a muttered curse, his opinion of that notion as he poured us both a dram of my Aunt Antonia’s very fine whisky.
“We’ll go to St. John’s Wood in the morning.”
I smiled to myself. There was usually more than one way around a grumpy Scot.
It was late morning when we arrived at St. John’s Wood, a rural village that was home to artists, writers, and those seeking privacy, with tree-lined streets among green fields. Far different from the city proper, with crowded streets, soot-filled air, and ever-present fog from the river.
It was also removed from central London, where men of means and title kept their mistresses, including, according to rumor written by Theodolphus Burke in a previous scandal sheet article, the current mistress of His Royal Highness.
The postal office, across from quaint shops, a small art gallery, and a coffeehouse with tables set about the flagstone courtyard, seemed the place to begin our search for information about Adele DeMille. However, the clerk did not recognize the name. Obviously not a patron of the London theatre.
“The grocer might know. There would be deliveries,” Brodie suggested. He had Mr. Jarvis, our driver, take us to a shop across the main square from the coffeehouse.
A woman who reminded me of Miss Effie at the Public House across from the office on the Strand greeted us as we entered.
