“When will she return? I would like very much to speak with her.”
She finished wrapping the roses for me. “That’s hard to tell. She ain’t been round the past several days. One of the other women said she probably found herself a man to take her away from all this.” She laughed as she made a sweeping gesture.
“Do you know where she lives?”
“She shares a room near here with one of the other girls. That would be Betty, but she’s already gone for the day. She usually works the stall across the way.” She made another gesture to the line of stalls opposite.
“She should be back in the mornin’, although it’s early before first light.”
She had finished wrapping the roses and tied the bundle off.
“That’ll be two shillings.”
I paid, then thanked her.
Traversing London at end of day is always a challenge. I eventually found a cab just beyond the Garden and returned to the office on the Strand.
Mr. Cavendish was there, along with the hound.
“It’s good yer back before himself,” Mr. Cavendish commented. “You know how he is about your bein’ out late in the day.”
“It will be our secret then,” I replied.
He waited as I paid the cabman.
“And your visit with Reggie?” he inquired.
“I was able to learn a few things.”
“Then you’ll be taking the case for the poor man?”
I nodded as I turned toward the stairs that led to the office.
“There are inquiries I can make.”
I chose not to go into details of what I had discovered.
“I do need to speak with Mr. Brodie regarding the best course to see the police report and find out what progress they have made.”
If any , I thought, but didn’t say it.
Up at the office, I laid my bag on my desk, then went to the chalkboard which I had cleaned of notes after the conclusion of our last inquiry case.
Brodie was not in the habit of making notes, offering the excuse that he needed to keep the details in his head where he could summon them at any given moment.
Most annoying.
However, that meant that I had the entire board to myself and my inquiries regarding Gwen Tavers.
I made notes from what I had learned, my observations, and possible clues—the wilted flowers, that photograph, along with the discovery of that discarded page from The Times.
I then sat at the desk and took out that front page from The Times that Gwen Tavers had torn from a three-week-old issue of the newspaper.
What might it tell me?
I was familiar with The Times, and a particular journalist with a somewhat notorious reputation who wrote for them—Theodolphus Burke.
It could be said that Mr. Burke and I had a somewhat contentious relationship.
He considered my efforts at writing my Emma Fortescue novels to be an insult to journalism, while articles he wrote for the newspaper—he had been known to point out when he wasn’t reduced to covering funerals—were of the quality of Henry Mayhew and Thomas O’Connor.
I was of the opinion that he was reaching a bit there in both cases. That might have had something to do with our previous encounters.
For myself, I thought the man arrogant, bombastic, overreaching, with little regard for the consequences of his writing, and merely adequate in his journalistic skills.
Writing funeral notices—names, dates, places—I thought were a perfect assignment for him.
As a chill set in, I lit a fire in the coal stove, took off my walking boots and propped my feet up at the corner of my desk.
Mr. Cavendish had brought round two cartons of food from the Public House.
I retrieved a bottle of Old Lodge whisky from the cabinet that sat beside Brodie’s desk and poured a dram.
As the hour grew later, I put that second supper on a plate, then set it on the iron mantelpiece at the stove and poured a glass for Brodie, and a second dram for myself.
It was very near ten o’clock in the evening when I heard the sound of familiar footsteps on the landing.
Over the past two years, I’ve learned to read Brodie’s expressions, followed by the usual questions starting with , ‘How was your day, dear?’
His expression tonight required whisky first. He reached for the tumbler on the table and tossed back a dram of Old Lodge whisky.
“And how was your day at the Agency, dear?” I inquired.
He held out his glass for another dram. It did seem very likely that his work to find the person or information he’d been tasked with had not gone well.
I poured as he sat wearily at the chair at his desk. Another dram was required before conversation. He sipped that one more slowly. His head went back, eyes closed as he let the whisky work its magic.
“You met with the man about the missing daughter?” he inquired.
“Yes, and I did discover some interesting clues.”
I explained what I had learned, including the information about the police report, more as conversation than an attempt to draw any suggestions from him.
“It seems that Mr. Abberline has been reinstated. I expect little cooperation there,” I added, with no effort to hide the sarcasm.
“Aye, best to make yer inquiries through Mr. Dooley. I’ll put out the word to expect ye to call on him.”
He had recovered somewhat from whatever he had been doing since morning, and loosened his tie.
“Be careful of Abberline, if he learns that ye are making inquiries about a Police case.”
There was no need to warn me on that account.