Eleven
THE NEXT DAY …
I waited for the morning issue of The Times.
There was no guarantee that I would receive a response, yet I felt compelled to send a reply to the advertisement.
If I could not find who was behind those advertisements and another young woman might die.
I had learned from Brodie early on in our inquiry partnership that there is no such thing as coincidence, or random crimes. Each has a purpose and a person behind it.
What sort of person was behind the murder of an innocent flower seller?
I knew the obvious reason, of course. The crime sheets of the dailies were filled with the assaults on girls and women in the East End.
‘A plague of predators,’ one report had called it.
An innocent person in the wrong place at the wrong time . ..
Yet, this was different, and somehow even more terrifying. I refused to believe that it was a random assault on a street corner or in a tavern. From the little I knew about Lizzie Smith, she was not that sort.
She was hard-working, and a dreamer at the same time, who longed to leave the Garden behind and travel.
A tragic accident? The condition of Lizzie Smith’s body did not speak to an accident. As Inspector Dooley pointed out afterward, the condition of her body had been deliberate, with but one purpose—so that she would not easily be found nor the individual who had murdered her discovered.
Deliberate. It was the only word for what had happened to Lizzie Smith. And with two additional missing young women, it was possible that it would happen again.
I had put in a telephone call to the Agency through the woman who insisted there was no phone connection, until I gave her a specific calling number for the Scientific Development Department, where Alex Sinclair worked on his latest inventions.
“Lady Forsythe?” he remarked with some surprise. “How is it that you were able to put through the call?” He paused. “Do not tell me. I do not want to know. It undoubtedly has to do with a certain member of the royal family. “
I did not tell him. Instead, I insisted that I needed to speak with Brodie. There was another pause at the other end of the call.
“The official response is that I do not know where he is.”
The official response? Of course, that meant that he knew very well where Brodie was, or in the least had the ability to contact him.
I liked Alex very much. He was charming in that way of someone who is perpetually distracted, his mind always on one of his inventions. He was highly intelligent, and we had shared more than one inquiry case.
I remained calm but insistent when I informed him that the matter was most urgent, that Brodie was aware of the case, that I valued his loyalty and talents, and did not believe him for a minute that he didn’t know where Brodie might be found.
He repeated that official response. Most aggravating.
“When you do not see him next or do not know where he is,” I replied, “you must tell him that I need to speak with him.” And added that it was most important.
Official response, indeed!
Short of being able to reach Brodie, I did hope was that Munro might be able to find him.
I waited through the remainder of the day until the evening issue of the newspaper appeared on the street, and quickly scanned the Personals advertisements on the front page. The original advertisement was there, but there was no response.
I was convinced that it had been foolish on my part, to think that it would appear that quickly ... if at all.
Perhaps I had not seemed eager enough in my response, or perhaps it was off-putting for some reason. Or … there was a possibility that several other young women had replied, mine merely one among several.
When the morning of the second day arrived and there was still no answer, I returned to Sussex Square. However, Munro was not there.
I returned to the office on the Strand much to Lily’s protest, and went over everything I had learned since taking up the case for Reggie Tavers.
There had to be something that I was missing, some piece of information I had overlooked or thought unimportant.
I was not usually one given to outbursts of frustration. Anger was one thing, however I was usually calm and quite rational when it came to deciphering information.
“Yer not one to throw a wobbly and go off into one about something like most women I know,” Brodie once said.
Of course that led to a bit of a conversation about the women he did know.
It was the ringing of the service bell that pulled me back to the matter at hand. I immediately went out onto the landing.
“The evening paper, miss.” Mr. Cavendish held it aloft.
I had asked him to watch for the news boys who appeared on the street when each new issue came out. I ran down the stairs to the sidewalk.
He handed me the newspaper.
I was not one to spend hours each day idly reading about the latest crimes in London, the society pages with the announcements of the forthcoming soirees, who was seen with whom, or those Personals advertisements.
“Is there somethin’ the matter, miss? Somethin’ I can help you with?”
I thanked him but I couldn’t tell him about Lizzie Smith and what I had seen, nor what it might mean for Reggie Tavers’s daughter.
I made an excuse and quickly returned to the office.
I laid the newspaper out on Brodie’s desk and quickly found that original advertisement … And below it the response to my inquiry!
‘Respectable Girl. We must meet.
3:00
18-Jun.
#4 Princes Gate, Knightsbridge’
I sat back in the chair. A time, and a location.
I had hoped but held no confidence that there would be a response.
The message stared back at me. The following day was the 18 th of June, and I was to be there at three o’clock in the afternoon.
What would I find when I arrived there?
I was not familiar with the address, yet there was an establishment that would know. I folded the newspaper and tucked it inside my travel bag, then locked the office door.
Mr. Cavendish was not about, nor the hound. I waved down a cab and gave the driver the location of the courier office.
The office was well lit when I arrived, as they remained open for late customers.
“That address would be in Knightsbridge,” the attendant behind the desk informed me. “That would be Kilburn House, according to our records. It’s been marked off for deliveries for some time in the records we receive from the postal office.
“Could be that no one lives there anymore.”
That made no sense. Or, very possibly it made perfect sense, for someone who was determined to remain anonymous.
I returned to the Strand. I had a great deal to think about.
I spent the night at the office on the Strand with Rupert on the floor beside the bed. It was a restless night and I finally rose very near five in the morning, dressed, then went out into the office.
As the hour grew later, there was still no word from Brodie, and I made a plan.
I could not, would not abandon the only chance I might have to find Gwen Tavers and Charlotte Davies. Whatever had happened to them, I was convinced it was connected to the disappearance of Lizzie Smith.
However, I was not na?ve. I was planning on entering into what might prove a very dangerous situation. Therefore, I sat down at Brodie’s desk and took several steps prior to setting off for that address in Knightsbridge.
I made a telephone call to the Yard, and was informed that Inspector Dooley was not available. I then wrote out a message for Brodie for the courier service to deliver to the Agency at the Tower, with no way of knowing when he might receive it.
That done, I went to the board, and went over everything I had written, searching for anything that might tell me more. I then prepared for my meeting with the person who had replied to my response.
I had chosen my clothes carefully. I wore a simple worsted walking skirt with a shirtwaist and scuffed boots that I kept at the office. Much the same that a ‘ respectable girl’ might wear who hoped to secure the position that had been advertised.
My hair was pinned up under a simple boat hat, and I carried my travel bag as though I hoped to immediately set off on the adventure that had been promised in that advertisement.
Yet, inside that bag, along with my notebook and that newspaper ad response, were the revolver Brodie insisted I always carry, along with the knife Mr. Munro had given me.
I had allowed myself a full hour with the usual traffic to make the ride from the office.
Mr. Cavendish was there at the sidewalk and I asked him to wave down a driver.
“It’s late in the day. Mr. Brodie wouldn’t have ye go by yerself,” Mr. Cavendish reminded me.
“Nevertheless,” I replied.
He frowned, shook his head, then gave off a shrill whistle and the hound popped out of the alcove.
I had no idea what I might find in Knightsbridge; however, it was very likely the hound would not be well received. Still, I would not argue the matter with Mr. Cavendish.
I stepped into the cab. The hound jumped in after.
As we left the Strand, I had the driver stop. The hound might very well draw suspicion from whomever was at that address in Knightsbridge, and even though I regretted setting him off, I was convinced it was necessary.
“Home!” I told him, one of the words I had been teaching him.
He stared up at me from the street with a confused expression. I then had the driver continue on.
Even with the late afternoon traffic that often brought the main streets in London to a stop, we arrived in Knightsbridge in a timely manner.
“Princes Gate?” the driver announced with some doubt as he pulled the cab to a stop at the corner.
“Are ye sure, miss?”
I caught the uncertainty in his voice. It matched my own.
I was somewhat familiar with the area surrounding Knightsbridge from several years before, but not this part, which had once been an area of stately manors that were now dark and abandoned with only a single streetlamp, in a part of London where there was not yet any electric.