Deadly Murder, page 3
I thought of what I had read about Napoleon Bonaparte, quite short it seems from written accounts. I was most appreciative that Brodie was tall. He was self-assured with no penchant for exercising his authority over another. Unless provoked, of course. But that came from his early life on the streets and some sort of survival instinct.
“What is that look for?” he inquired now as he prepared for his meeting with Inspector Dooley.
He was not in the habit of wearing a tie. However, I had persuaded him that it had a way of setting him apart under certain circumstances.
This morning, he had added one, tying it as if he would rather have avoided the whole thing—which of course he did.
I had finished my notes and went to assist.
“I am most grateful that you are quite tall,” I commented as I straightened his tie for him.
His eyes narrowed in speculation. He was most definitely not accustomed to receiving compliments.
“What might that have to do with matters?”
I finished tying.
“I have never fancied short men. They do seem to constantly be making up for that inadequacy.”
“Inadequacy? Would that include the Greek guide I found ye with some years before in yer misguided youth?”
“Misguided?” I inquired as he pulled me against him.
“Aye, taking yerself off with a man ye didna know could have been dangerous.”
Though it had been several years earlier, it was obvious that he had not dismissed it.
“Being abducted by yourself could have been dangerous,” I pointed out. “You might have had your way with me.”
He shook his head. “I did not abduct ye. And I was not in the habit of taking advantage of young women full of themselves. The fact was that I was being paid a great deal to bring ye safely back to London by her ladyship.”
“How mercenary of you, Mr. Brodie.”
“Ah, well, the rent was due for the office, and I had just finished another case at the time.”
It was so like him to dismiss it as nothing more than another case or well-paid errand.
“There was that other part though.”
Other part?
“What was that?” I demanded with some pique at being reduced to an errand.
“Ye are a troublesome baggage. Strong-willed, and there was that part on the boat when ye threatened to pitch me overboard into the sea. I was tempted to bind ye and tie a cloth over yer mouth. Ye do have a way with words. It’s that temper of yers.”
How very endearing, I thought. “You seem to have survived.”
That dark gaze met mine. “I prefer a challenge. I’d never met a lady who knew those words.”
Yes, well…I had tried to temper my vocabulary since. I had discovered other effective means.
He kissed me quite thoroughly, which made me consider that we might perhaps put off our inquiries for the day?
His hands slipped onto my shoulders then he gently set me from him.
“I will see ye at the townhouse,” he said in parting.
I knew that he also intended to visit the scene of the crime, as he called it, with that former police inspector’s perspective.
“Perhaps,” I replied.
He could be such a devil, and it was all that I could think of in the moment. And then there was that smile curving one corner of his mouth.
“Then we can discuss what we learned.”
As I said, such a devil. He knew perfectly well that I would want to know everything he was able to learn about the police investigation into young Lord Salisbery’s murder, as well as his thoughts about where it had taken place.
After he left, I seized my travel bag with my notebook and left the office as well.
While he met with Mr. Dooley, I intended to call on the print shop that had provided calling cards for our inquiry business.
I was hoping to learn what the owner of the shop might be able to tell me about the stationary used for the note that was found with young Lord Salisbery the night of the robbery and murder.
As we set off, I took the lift down from the second floor to the street as Brodie took the stairs once again.
“It is quite marvelous,” I told him again when he arrived on the landing near the alcove. “And it saves time.” That was something that should appeal to him.
“As long as the hound stays out of the bloody thing.”
“Yes, I know. And you prefer things that don’t move under your feet,” I replied as I stepped past him and gave the driver Mr. Cavendish had summoned the destination of the print shop on Fleet Street.
“Do be careful,” I told him as I stepped up into coach. “Coaches can be most dangerous…they move under your feet.”
There was undoubtedly a comment about that, but I failed to hear it as we set off.
The ride to Fleet Street was not long, and I arrived just after ten o’clock in the morning.
In addition to calling cards, they also provided notebooks and stationery, and were under contract with my publisher to print my books.
The clerk at the counter greeted me cordially, “Good morning, Lady Forsythe. How may I assist you this morning? More calling cards?”
“I would like to speak with Mr. Marsden regarding another matter if he is available,” I explained.
The clerk let him know, and he appeared from the back of his shop.
“Good morning, Lady Forsythe.”
I explained that I needed his assistance in identifying a certain piece of paper and where it might have been purchased.
“Ah, part of your next inquiry case, perhaps?” he commented.
“If we might meet privately,” I suggested.
It was my intention to keep the note and that message private for now. That required having him examine the envelope it had been left in, which was stained with blood.
He nodded. “Of course.” And directed me toward his office.
He closed the door for privacy as I took the envelope out of my bag. I laid the envelope on his desk.
“I’m hoping you might be able to tell me something about this.”
I didn’t mention that the paper was quite different from any I had used in the past, my great aunt’s formal stationary with the family crest, nor other paper I was familiar with—found in the dailies, or the paper in my books.
He picked up the envelope to inspect it, and I caught the change in his expression when he saw the stain across the front of it.
He gently stroked the unmarred flap, then held the envelope up to the overhead light.
“Just as I thought.” He very carefully laid it back on the desk. “The paper the envelope was made from is handmade, a very old, time-consuming process, and quite expensive. I have not had a request for it in some time. It is called rag paper, quite different from paper used for newspapers and books, or quality white paper for correspondence, or the usual notepaper requested for writing letters.”
“Who might use this?” I inquired.
“As I said, it is quite expensive. Those who could afford it, of course, the upper classes, perhaps the Queen,” he suggested, then had a thoughtful expression. “I might have a sample of this in one of my folders. If you have the time…?”
“Yes, of course.”
He went to the cabinet behind his desk and pulled down a thick leather-bound folder. He opened it atop the desk.
“I keep all samples of paper that I’ve used over the years, and a file for customers that lists the paper they’ve used in the past for their print orders, as you well know.”
There were several samples. He found the one he was looking for and held it up.
“This is a sample of rag paper before it’s printed with anything.” He handed the sample to me. It was thick and I could feel raised areas that had been woven into the paper.
“Those are cotton fibers, very similar to the material in the envelope. It requires a very careful printing process. It is also very durable, where other types of paper might yellow or become quite brittle and crumble over time.”
“Are there those who specialize in using rag paper, who might be able to tell me who placed an order for this envelope?”
“The older gentleman, Hiram Bridgeforth, whom I apprenticed with, kept a stock of it, but that was quite a long time ago. Most printers use thick wood pulp paper for stationery, announcements, and calling cards, with notepaper such as the ones I bind for diaries, journals, notebooks and your novels.
“I apologize that I cannot tell you more, Lady Forsythe?” He handed the envelope back to me.
I nodded and thanked him for his time and information. Before leaving, I purchased two of his notebooks.
“I look forward to your next novel. Mr. Warren has said that it will be forthcoming for print.”
My latest Emma novel was regarding a case that had taken Brodie and I to France and then Budapest. I had finished it a few months earlier and delivered it to my publisher, who was now my sister’s husband.
It was still early in the day as I left the stationer’s shop, that envelope and note tucked into my current notebook. I had learned something potentially important in my visit with Mr. Marsden, but I had no idea what it might mean—expensive, somewhat rare stationery that few people used any more. Except perhaps for someone of the upper class?
It was some time yet until I was to meet Brodie back at the townhouse in Mayfair, and I directed the driver to Sussex Square.
Lily, quite a young woman now, had been in somewhat of a somber mood at the birthday celebration for my great aunt.
“The usual sort of thing,” my sister had commented at the time. “You must remember it from our own time before leaving for France where we wouldn’t see most of our friends here in London except on holiday.”
It was a reminder of my part in bringing Lily to London as my ward, and I decided to take the opportunity to call on them.
Four
BRODIE
The Jampot coffeehouse, as it was referred to, so-called because it was founded when Jamaican coffee was first brought to London, was just off Cornhill at the edge of the financial district. It was an unlikely place to encounter any of the lads from the MET or Chief Inspector Abberline.
Inspector Dooley was there when he arrived and nodded a greeting from a table near the rear of the establishment where either one might make a quick departure if needed.
He had contacted Dooley the previous afternoon in an effort to learn what progress the MET had made with the robbery and murder of young Lord Salisbery.
Dooley had provided valuable information in the past for their inquiry cases, under the table so to speak, when Brodie’s direct inquiries at the MET had met with:
Obstacles. “We’re not allowed to give out that information, Mr. Brodie.”
Delays. “I put in the request, sir, but there’s been no response from high up as yet.”
Or no response at all.
As if the information had simply disappeared into the London fog, when time was most important, and other lives might very well have been in danger.
More often than not the information was important, and they had both avoided any confrontation with those “higher up” in the matter with a common excuse that the information was learned from “another source” that remained nameless when questioned.
To his way of thinking, the most important thing was solving the crime. If it required bending the rules from time to time, or acquiring information that might not otherwise be available, he was not one to lose sleep over the matter.
He took the chair opposite Dooley that faced out to the entrance if anyone from the service should arrive at the coffeehouse. He was not of a mind to put his friend in a difficult situation.
Mr. Dooley waved down the man behind the counter to bring another cup of coffee.
“The case you inquired about has been difficult,” Dooley commented, the accent of years in the Irish countryside still there after over twenty years in London.
“Robbery?” Brodie asked as the coffee warmed his belly.
“That would seem to be the motive. The young man apparently resisted…”
And robbery, frequent on the streets of London, particularly late at night, became murder.
“What about the club attendant?”
“He was questioned. A driver arrived as usual when the call was put out. The attendant saw the young man to the coach, as usual. Then they were on their way.”
“Private coach?” Brodie asked.
Dooley shook his head. “One of the city services. It seems the young man wanted to avoid any scrutiny and usually had a driver called for.”
Brodie sat back in his chair, turning over the information.
“Did the attendant notice anything unusual in Salisbery’s manner?”
“Only that he was well into his cups when he left.”
“What time was that?”
“Near three in the morning. He’d been gaming most of the night, and…other activities.”
“A woman?”
Dooley nodded. “The usual ‘menu’ according to the attendant. He said she goes by the name of Lady Dumont.”
Lady Dumont. It was not the first time that such a woman would stylize herself as a 'lady', except the 'lady' he was married too. Titles had a way of increasing the appeal, the clientele, not to mention the compensation.
“However,” Dooley continued, “we have not been able to question her in the matter. She seems to have disappeared, perhaps due to the events of the evening and a reluctance to be questioned by the police.”
“Where does the ‘lady’ live?”
“Lady Dumont?” I commented as Brodie recounted his meeting with Mr. Dooley.
I sat across from him, my boots on the floor, my stockinged feet propped across his knee as we shared what we each learned with our inquiries. He was presently rubbing my right foot after my adventures with Lily at Sussex Square.
Upon my arrival, she had immediately challenged me to a duel with weapons from the Sword Room. It contained an impressive collection of rapiers, swords, shields, and a claymore or two, not to mention other assorted daggers, pikes, and several flint lock pistols and other weapons acquired by generations of Montgomerys.
In the interest of preserving the room, we had taken the challenge out onto the green. Needless to say, I was not appropriately dressed for the challenge, with a long skirt and inappropriate footwear.
But who might be when unexpectedly attacked, I rationalized, as I carried on with the duel, much to the complaint of my feet afterward. My consolation was that I had won the challenge.
“Do ye know the woman?” Brodie asked with a doubtful expression.
Admittedly, I did not usually associate with enterprising “ladies of the night,” other than a previous case. However…
“Most inventive,” I replied.
“Her name or her profession?” he asked with a sip of Old Lodge whisky.
Cheeky fellow. I would have commented on that, except I did not want to interrupt his attention which was now on my left foot.
“Lady Dumont is a character in a somewhat risqué novel that was written several years ago.”
“A novel?”
“Not the sort that I write. I prefer murder.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” he replied as he gently massaged my toes that had suffered somewhat from the afternoon duel.
“She was a notorious character who contributed to the demise of Lord Wimberley, another character in the novel. It was quite difficult to obtain a copy since it was banned for a while.”
“Ye prevailed of course.”
“A friend managed to acquire it and passed it to me.”
“A friend?”
Not that he believed it for a moment.
“And just how did the man meet his end?”
I gave him a very long look with a smile. He did have the reputation for being quite clever at figuring things out.
“I’ll have to remember that as well.” He reached across and took my glass from me.
“No more for ye, if I’m to live through the night.”
I laughed, yet there was another matter that I had learned of that afternoon.
“Lily mentioned that she spoke to you about returning to Edinburgh the other evening, rather than leaving for Paris after the new year.”
She had spoken of it to me but hadn’t shared what his response was. I was aware that she looked to him as a sort of father figure, with their similar backgrounds and experience in Edinburgh.
“She does seem to value your thoughts on important matters. What did you tell her?”
He proceeded to massage my toes. “That it was not for me to say,” he replied. “I am not a good example.”
“You and Munro are perfect examples. You’ve come from the same place and some of the same circumstances,” I pointed out. “And there have been times when she and I have had those sorts of discussions, and she looks at me as if…”
“As if, what?” he replied.
“She reminds me too much of me, headstrong, fearless at times, and…”
“Stubborn?” he suggested as he looked up.
“Perhaps a little,” I conceded. “Yet you have such a marvelous way of knowing people, ‘reading’ them as you call it, and she does trust you.”
I had experienced that first hand myself, admittedly a bit disconcerting at times when I had learned early on to keep my thoughts to myself and then carry on as a sort of self-preservation as my great aunt called it. He had changed that.
“What advice did you give her?” I then asked.
“I told her that my experience was not the example to follow. I also explained that an education, such as ye have, will take her far as she is intelligent, and it would provide her opportunities that she wouldn’t have otherwise.”
“It appears that you weren’t entirely able to dissuade her,” I concluded.
He looked at me with that dark gaze. I could have sworn there was amusement there.
“As I have been able to dissuade ye from doing something that ye shouldna do?”
“I have no idea what you are speaking of.”
He proceeded to tickle the bottom of my foot, and my toes curled. The only thing that prevented further assault of my foot was the service bell that rang on the landing followed by…a knock at the door.
