Page 36 of Deadly Murder (Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery #14)
TWO DAYS LATER, THE STRAND, LONDON
“I am pleased that you were not seriously injured, Lady Forsythe.” Sir Avery rose from the chair across the desk from Brodie.
That could be subject to one’s perspective, I thought.
The cut I had received in that attack in the graveyard at St. Mary’s had been well bandaged by Mr. Brimley upon our return to London late that same night after we’d met with the local police. The bandage was bothersome, and I had since removed it.
The director of the Special Services Agency had received Brodie’s telegram and was responsible for the arrival of the Metropolitan Police at St. Mary’s, those “ shadows” I had seen in the tree cover just beyond the graveyard.
A great deal had been learned in the past two days since the attack.
William Chastain, so named after his grandfather, Reverend William Chastain, was the man who had attacked me and was responsible for three murders and the attack on the Duke of York.
He had been born after Reverend Chastain and his daughter arrived in London. There was a record of it in the later entries at St. Pancras church where Reverend Chastain served as vicar.
From subsequent records that were found, Mary Chastain had never married, her son born out of wedlock.
She had lived with her father near St. Pancras and had continued to live with him until his death from illness. And near St. Mary’s Church, his final position, on the small pension he received and what she earned as a lady’s maid and at a local tavern.
The tall, heavyset man who had aided her son had been caught and arrested after the attack on the Duke of York. He had provided information about where he had met with William Chastain and where Chastain lived in a single room at a tenement in Spitalfields after the death of his mother.
Her son had no doubt eventually asked to know who his father was, as children were wont to do. There was no answer because she could not name him after that night at the tavern near Cambridge.
He had apparently been born with the lameness in one leg, noted by the physician in Hendon after the attack in the churchyard.
How he had learned the circumstances of his birth could only be speculated upon. Perhaps Mary Chastain had finally spoken of it on her deathbed to unburden herself. However, the two people who knew the truth of that were now both dead.
The neck scarf Lily had found was much like those worn by the vicars of the Church. Had Mary Chastain’s son attempted to wrap himself in the cloth of the righteous, as Brodie had suggested? That would remain unknown.
As for the marks that had been made on each victim’s body, perhaps a crude image of a cross, meant to be a symbol of absolution for a sinner?
So much that would never be known for certain.
The Prince of Wales had been informed that the case had been resolved with the threat ended. Not surprising there was no mention in the daily newspaper the day after, nor today.
I had sent a note the day before, as promised, to Lady Walsingham. I briefly explained that the case had concluded, and the person responsible for her son’s murder was dead. I had received a note in response just this morning that simply read— Thank you .
Perhaps there was some comfort to be had in the knowledge that the man had been found and was now dead.
I would call on her when it was appropriate, as I liked her very much.
After Sir Avery left, Brodie stepped to the cabinet and poured us both a dram of whisky.
He handed a tumbler to me and slowly sipped from his own glass.
Not a man of many words or grand gestures, still he reached out and lightly brushed his fingers near the cut on my neck.
“Ye should have left the bandage on a day or two more.”
Care and concern in a comment about wound care.
How could a woman possibly resist such words? The truth was that I could not.
However…
I took a sip of whisky. It was warm, with just a hint of heather; earthy, musky, and slightly floral, with hints of honey and lavender, according to Mr. Hutton who oversaw the distilling of it at Old Lodge in the north of Scotland.
“There is one part of the case that we have not yet discussed,” I commented.
That dark gaze was a bit distracting.
“What might that be?”
“You fired three shots when one obviously was sufficient.” I added. “The physician was quite certain of it after he examined the body.”
He took another sip of whisky, that dark gaze warm as the color of the drink in his hand.
I waited as he emptied the tumbler, then reached out, his fingers gentle on my cheek, that dark gaze, darker still.
A man I could trust.