“Ye know, when ye’ve seen enough of it.”
He picked up the pen than drew across the page in my notebook.
“As ye see here, the wound was larger where it began at the right side of her throat then less as it was drawn across. The person who murdered yer friend was left-handed.”
It took a moment for that to sink in—a smaller, left-handed man was the murderer. Gruesome as it was, I listened. And once more, it was something I verra likely would not have learned otherwise.
“How do we find this person?”
On the streets of Old Town and the New Town, those who profited from such crimes disappeared back into the shadows. With the way people in those places kept to themselves. It seemed impossible that we would be able to find the murderer.
“There are those who might know of such a person.”
I realized that it meant slipping back into those shadows he had left long ago. Questions asked. Some might answer, others would not. It was a stark reminder that this would not be easy.
“Stay here,” he said, pulling me back from my thoughts. “Make yer notes. There could be something important in the letters yer friend sent ye. Do as I say. I’ll be back.” And he was gone.
‘Do as I say?’
I bristled at the words as if we were still at Sussex Square in London and I was still a child as I had been when I first arrived. And I recalled one of Lady Antonia’s explanations about Mr. Munro.
“He is simply looking out for your welfare, my dear, as I have requested of him.Do try not to inflict any serious wounds on the man.”
And more recently she had suggested, “You might speak with Mikaela. She has some experience with such things.”
I had spoken with her about it. She thought the situation quite entertaining.
She wished me luck and had finished our conversation with an odd comparison to leopards and their spots. That was from the past year when I had taken myself off alone in the motor carriage across London to the office on the Strand.
After that incident, I overheard the conversation between Munro and Lady Antonia which no one else would have dared.
“I canna protect the chit when she takes herself off without a word...”
Reckless chit that I was.
I remembered something else Mikaela Forsythe had once said about her participation with Mr. Brodie in their inquiry cases—that two heads and two pairs of eyes were better than one.
I snapped my notebook closed and tucked it into my bag.
Simon Sinclair rose from behind his desk as I returned to the front of the office.
“Is there something I can get for you, Miss Montgomery?” he inquired as a sudden patch of colour spread across his cheeks above an attempt at a thin beard.
“Did Mr. Munro say where he was going?”
“He did not, miss. He did say that you would be remaining until his return.”
Of course, I thought. Neatly tucked away, sitting on my hands as it were when I might be able to help.
“Miss?” Simon asked again.
I looked out at the street. A heavy rain had set in. While Fleshmarket Close was not far, I would be soaked through within very few minutes if I set off afoot.
I was familiar with certain places in the Old Town, however Parliament Square and the adjacent street with professional offices near the Royal Courts were not a place the ladies nor I had frequented in the past.
“How far is the Fleshmarket?”
“The Fleshmarket?” he stammered. “It’s not a place where a lady would go.”
