Two
Brodie left early the following morning, with a final word that if he was needed, I had only to leave a message for him with Alex Sinclair at the Agency office at the Tower. Or leave a note at the office on the Strand. Not that he agreed to assist with my inquiries on behalf of Mr. Tavers.
I smiled to myself as I assured him that I would leave a message if necessary. I then dressed and called for a cab. When the driver arrived, I directed him to Mr. Tavers’s shop in Piccadilly where Mr. Cavendish had agreed to meet me.
I did wonder how he managed the distance from the Strand. I imagined him putting a harness on the hound, much like a horse, then cracking a whip overhead as the London cab drivers do. Yet here he was, and the hound was nowhere to be seen.
“I spoke with Reg first thing,” Mr. Cavendish explained when I arrived. “There’s been no word.”
The shop was open early for business to accommodate merchants, stable keepers, and street sweepers who had need of the variety of brushes sold there. The proprietor looked up as Mr. Cavendish and I entered, a bell over the door announcing our arrival.
Reggie Tavers was short, with dark brown hair streaked with grey, a frown on his face as he acknowledged our arrival with a nod. In sharp contrast, his customer was a large man with thick arms, a stableman, from their exchange of conversation, who had just made a purchase.
I had learned from Brodie that there was often much to be determined by observing one’s surroundings—where someone worked, where they lived, along with their manner toward other people, or a conversation that might be overheard.
I listened to their exchange as I slowly scanned the shop with its display of brushes and brooms.
The shop was neat in appearance for one that provided a workman’s tools, that included an assortment of bins that held small brushes, with brooms of various sizes displayed on the walls.
It was a typical worker’s shop, with a faint coating of dust on the stones underfoot, windows faintly smudged from a recent rain, and the rough wood counter where Mr. Tavers met with his customers.
Mr. Cavendish had spoken of the girl’s desire to travel, and I tried to imagine what she might have seen for her future here—selling brushes and brooms. Perhaps caring for her father as he grew older, with a husband who might take his place when he passed on.
It would provide a modest living over the shop. But what of her dreams of travel?
Were they strong enough for her to simply walk away from the meagre living the shop provided? Had there been an argument perhaps, with her father who apparently had spoken against such foolishness?
There were too often difficulties in families, as I well knew.
It was not limited to the working classes—a spirited daughter, a father with debts to pay, perhaps a loss of business coming out of the winter season, and the temptations for a young girl to escape.
Perhaps physical abuse, although Mr. Tavers didn’t seem the sort.
He was quiet and patient with the stableman who couldn’t seem to decide which broom he wanted while Mr. Tavers made suggestions and explained the use of the wide birch-bristle broom compared to a wire bristle brush. The latter was a bit more expensive but would last far longer.
I continued to wait as the customer seemed to consider one, then the other, along with the cost. Then the man asked about Gwen Tavers.
“Off on an errand,” Mr. Tavers replied, choosing not to mention anything more.
The stableman nodded. It seemed a casual enough question that anyone who had been in the shop before might ask. He then completed his purchase, choosing the less expensive broom.
“I’ll be out of business before I need a new one with all the machines about,” he commented. “There will be no need for horses.”
Their business concluded, Mr. Tavers made note of the sale as his customer departed.
Mr. Cavendish had been waiting by the entrance to the shop. He rolled forward on his platform and introduced me to Mr. Tavers.
His customer gone, the shopkeeper nodded with a frown, his expression heavily lined.
“Cavendish here has told me about your inquiry work with Mr. Brodie, and thank you kindly for being willing to meet with me. But you see ...” he hesitated.
“It’s just that ... I was expectin’...” his voice trailed off.
I knew perfectly well what it was that he was expecting, and the presumption that a woman couldn’t do something as well as a man.
“You were expecting to meet with Mr. Brodie.”
“Well, with his experience with the MET and all ...” He glanced over at Mr. Cavendish.
“Now, Reg, don’t go gettin’ on yer ear,” he told him. “Lady Forsythe has had a great deal of experience with inquiries. She was good enough to meet with you while Mr. Brodie’s off on another case. You should be grateful that she is willing to speak with you about the matter.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t. It’s just that she’s a lady and not the usual sort to be poking around in such a thing.”
I did suppose that was a compliment.
“In such situations, Mr. Tavers, there are often things that I would notice that could be important, things a woman would observe about a situation that a man might not. The fact is that I have contributed to our inquiries most efficiently. However, if my being a woman is a problem for you, then I understand.”
I turned to leave.
“Not at all,” he replied. “Yer right, of course. Beg yer pardon, Lady Forsythe.” He glanced to the back of the shop behind the counter.
“I need to send the delivery boy on his way. A moment, if you please.”
“That would be Gilly,” Mr. Cavendish commented. “He’s a good lad, a bit shy. Doesn’t speak much. Reggie said he may be a bit off in the head, but he’s a hard worker.”
I caught a brief glimpse of Gilly as Mr. Tavers stepped into what was obviously a storeroom. He was of medium height, thin beneath a worn shirt, a tangle of longish brown hair tied back, with a long nose between dark eyes, and a curious expression as he glanced at me and Mr. Cavendish.
“It could be useful to speak with the young man,” I commented.
“I thought you might want to,” Mr. Cavendish replied.
Gilly nodded at something that was said, no doubt instructions for that delivery, and then set off out the back of the shop.
Mr. Tavers returned.
“It’s usually quiet of a mornin’ after I’ve sent orders out for the day. If you don’t mind meeting back of the counter,” he indicated the workshop. “It’s more private.”
“Not at all.”
He provided a chair, and we sat at a worktable with Mr. Cavendish on his platform. The shopkeeper took out a pipe and lit it, the fragrant smoke mingling with the smell of wood and fuel oil, along with the overall mustiness of the shop.
Mr. Tavers spoke of his daughter—she was a good girl, had never done anything like this before. She was quick with numbers when working with the customers, and not one to carry on with men.
I then asked about her interest in travel.
Had she spoken of a particular trip she longed to make? Did she have a close friend she might have shared that with?
“She spoke of it. I reminded her that she was needed here, not taking herself off to some other country,” he replied. “And how was she to pay for it?
“I’m able to provide a roof over our heads and food, but I’m not a rich man. And like me customer said, with all the new inventions and machines, I’ll be out of business. I have to think of that.
“But I’m not unfeelin’. I understand this is not the place for a young girl with dreams and such. But I never thought the girl would just up and leave.”
“You’ve made a report with the MET,” I then commented.
He nodded. “A young constable by the name of Kemp. It’s been near three weeks now, and not a word.”
I sympathized from my own experiences with the MET. However, as Brodie had reminded me, it often had more to do with the number of cases rather than negligence over a particular case.
Still, my sister’s disappearance two years before had been pushed aside as nothing more than a woman of means taking herself off in a fit of pique.
“Was there any argument or difficulty before she disappeared? A young man perhaps?”
“There was no argument, no more than usual about her wantin’ to travel. And my girl is not that way about men.”
As far as he was aware, I thought.
“I meant no offense, Mr. Tavers. Yet it’s often some small thing that creates a difficulty when someone chooses to leave.”
He shook his head. “There was no difficulty.”
“Might I see her room?” I inquired after he had answered my questions.
He looked at me oddly. “What would be the reason for that?”
I explained that seeing a person’s private room often provided some insight to one’s thinking or possibly a clue that could be important.
He nodded. “At the top of the stairs. I’ll show you the way. The stairs is narrow. Take care, I wouldn’t want you to take a misstep.
“Do you wish me to remain, miss?” Mr. Cavendish inquired, with a glance in the direction of Reggie Tavers.
“It’s quite all right. I will continue from here,” I assured him.
“I’ll see you at the office then, miss. And back before end of day?” he added as a reminder, no doubt from Brodie.
“If Mr. Brodie should return before then, you can assure him that I will take care not to be out and about after dark.”
He spun about on the platform. “I’ll be on me way then.”
I turned toward those stairs and followed Mr. Tavers to the second-floor room.
With the cases I had assisted in the past, I’d become familiar with all sorts of living accommodations—a flat in a rooming house, a room no bigger than a closet in some of the more disreputable places, or the back room of a shop.
There was always something that told one about the person who occupied such a place. I did wonder what Gwen Tavers’s room might tell me.
As I began my inspection, Mr. Tavers made his excuse to return to the shop below.