Chapter 6

Six

I was familiar with St. James’s Street. The shops included the exclusive haberdasher to the royal family, an art gallery that I had visited more than once with my sister, and the Cortland Auction House. I had attended the auction house with my great aunt when she had been on a campaign to sell off several pieces of rare furnishings that were several hundred years old.

An attendant met me at the door. I gave him my name and was escorted into the main auction hall, where rare pieces were being displayed for the auction that was to take place the following day. I told Rupert to stay.

I had not met Sir Anthony Fellowes previously; however, there was only one person who could possibly be the owner of the auction house. He was dressed in an impeccable suit with black coat and striped pants. With thinning grey hair, sharp features, and a satin neck scarf, he held a notebook before him and called out instructions to the staff as they wheeled in other pieces, presumably for the auction the next day that was being promoted on the framed sidewalk board.

The attendant made Sir Anthony aware of my arrival. He turned and nodded in acknowledgement and handed his notes to the man as several workers continued to set up rows of chairs with velvet upholstery.

“Lady Forsythe, good afternoon.”

He was very much my same height as he held out a hand and greeted me, then with a look around at the activity among the workers said, “My office might be better suited for a private conversation.”

His office was like the office of any other professional person, with an elegant mahogany desk and Louis XV table and chairs, and an impressive hammered-copper war shield on the wall behind his desk.

“Forgive me for being somewhat distracted,” he apologized. “It’s just that there is so much to do with the auction tomorrow.” He smiled when he saw my interest in the shield.

“It was a gift from Sir Nelson. I have always been interested in ancient Egypt. He thought of it as a way of repaying me for staying with me when he returned from his trips abroad. I refused to accept any compensation from him.

“It was a way for old school colleagues to catch up on things in the world. Neither of us had married, so it was just two single fellows, and our work.”

That smile again.

“I explained that I would keep it for him for his exhibition at the museum. I had not had time to send it over.” He shook his head as he folded his hands before him.

“When he didn’t return that night ... I had heard of course, through people we both knew. Such a dreadful situation. I thought of postponing the auction, but he would not want that, as the invitations were already out and it is a source of income.”

“Did he have artifacts that he provided to the auction?” I inquired.

“No, he was very adamant that no piece he brought back would be sold for profit. Other than the shield, everything he found went to the museum.”

I explained that Brodie and I had been retained as consultants by the MET, and we were assisting in attempting to solve the murder.

“Any way that I may assist, Lady Forsythe,” he assured me.

I explained that in our past inquiry cases, those who had contact with the victim might provide clues, as well as reveal any difficulties that were known. Things like debts or any threats that might have been made could be helpful.

“I understand there was some difficulty between Sir Nelson and his nephew,” I added.

“Sadly, yes. It was a long-standing issue that I was well aware of. Nelson spoke of it. I know that it bothered him deeply. He wrote to his sister and her son and attempted to contact them whenever he returned. They sent only cursory responses that hurt him deeply.

“His nephew came to London to meet with him just days ago. They met at my residence. There was quite a row. His nephew demanded that Sir Nelson take on the debt for supporting his mother, Nelson’s sister. When he attempted to explain, including something about the original inheritance she was given, things became quite ugly.”

“Did he make any threats against Sir Nelson?” I asked.

“More than once, and then the young man left. His parting words were quite chilling, considering what has now happened.”

“What were they?”

“He told Sir Nelson that in one way or another, he would pay for what he’d done to his family.”

That did seem ominous. And if the meeting between Sir Nelson and his nephew was as Sir Anthony described it, there might be a motive.

I asked if there was anyone else who heard the confrontation between them.

“Regrettably only myself. I don’t retain a large staff of servants. The only man in my employ, my secretary who assists with my work, had the evening away.” He was thoughtful.

“I warned Nelson to take care and be cautious. I offered to make a loan to him to cover his nephew’s claims, but he refused to hear of it. He said that it would never be the end of it.” He shook his head once more.

“And just as he was about to show all of London the marvelous exhibition at the museum after years of hard work. Such a great loss. So very sad.”

There was little more Sir Anthony could tell me. After that dreadful confrontation, Sir Nelson’s nephew had departed.

A great loss indeed, I thought. And that confrontation just before Sir Nelson’s death?

John Sutcliffe had refused to have anything to do with final arrangements for his uncle. To say that he was apparently not grief-stricken was an understatement.

Nor surprised? I thought.

It did seem that, in spite of the difficult circumstances, a visit with John Sutcliffe was in order. Most definitely a prickly situation. Family relations could be difficult, as I knew only too well.

From the information Mr. Dooley had provided, I had learned that John Sutcliffe lived in Twickenham. I was aware of the location from previous travels with my sister to the countryside south of London.

It was only a forty-minute trip by rail, yet very much like traveling to a different country. The community had grown considerably over the past several years as business people, families, and others sought to escape the crowded conditions in the city, the lack of suitable housing, and the crime.

I had made my last trip with my sister from Waterloo Station. Unless the schedule had changed, there should be a train departing the next morning.

I left the warehouse district and easily found a driver for the return to the Strand, thoughtful on the ride over everything Sir Anthony had told me. The hound was a good listener.

Brodie had not yet returned from meeting with Mr. Brown. I updated my notes and the chalkboard with what I had learned from Sir Anthony. It certainly did appear that John Sutcliffe might have had a motive, considering that last argument and obvious difficulties over the years.

And the means was obvious, with that dagger that was part of the collection in the exhibit. However, that raised the question about opportunity.

Where there was a will, there was a way?

Brodie eventually returned. His meeting with Mr. Brown had provided information that might be useful.

It was no secret that even in our modern day and age there was still a thriving smuggling business, which Mr. Brown had personal knowledge of.

A contact from Brodie’s past with the Metropolitan Police, he had provided valuable information in our last inquiry case.

He was a shadowy figure who quite literally lived in the shadows. And he was quite dangerous, according to Mr. Cavendish. It spoke to Brodie’s past on the streets when he and Munro were forced to do all manner of things in order to survive.

He had been forthcoming regarding many of those aspects. However, when I had asked questions about details of certain other parts of his past, he had simply replied that it was not for me to know.

“Ye went alone to the London Docks?” he pointedly asked.

I had hoped to avoid that bit of conversation—however this was Brodie.

“It was the middle of the day ...”

“Well into the afternoon,” he pointed out. “And verra near dark, and ye know it doesna matter much the time of day for a crime to happen.”

“You were not here at the time ...”

“Ye should have waited.”

I had the distinct feeling that I was losing the argument.

“I had no way of knowing when you might return,” I pointed out. “And I did learn important information ...”

“Ye could have learned this tomorrow when we both could have gone.”

“The hound was with me.”

This was an old argument, a very old argument.

“Sir Anthony has the auction tomorrow, and there would be no opportunity.” Not precisely the truth, however when navigating a conversation with Brodie, other measures were often required.

By the expression on his face, he wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t argue the point further.

“There is a train that leaves for Twickenham at ten o’clock in the morning from Waterloo Station,” I continued. “I should like to question Sir Nelson’s nephew, as there apparently was some difficulty between them, and he was in London quite recently.

“And you should know that I did have the revolver with me when I went to call on Sir Anthony Fellowes,” I added for the sake of argument, not being one to let a thing go, particularly where I could win that argument.

He shook his head as he took another swallow of whisky.

“Ye will be the death of me, Mikaela Forsythe.”

“None too soon, I hope,” I replied with a smile. “We do have a case to solve.”

We went over the rest of what we had each learned that afternoon.

From Mr. Brown he had confirmed that there was an extremely lucrative ‘ business ,’ as the man described it, in stolen artifacts that were smuggled into the country from time to time, and sold to a well-placed gentleman.

“How might that be connected to Sir Nelson’s murder?”

“There is a possibility that not everything he brought back with him made it into the exhibit at the museum.”

“Are you saying that he might have illegally sold artifacts?” I found it difficult to believe of the man I knew.

“Ye did learn that he spent most of the family fortune on his expeditions, and by what ye told me of yer meetin’ today, there were financial difficulties in the family. It is something to be considered.”

“Did Mr. Brown know the name of the gentleman?”

Brodie shook his head. “The man is no fool. It would jeopardize some of his own business dealings if it was learned that he had given the name to me. But it does provide a different aspect to the case.”

Was it possible that Sir Nelson had been involved in such an enterprise? And that something might have gone wrong in a transaction he made?

I hated to think it. Yet, it was possible.

“We need to look at the guest list for the opening of the exhibit,” Brodie said. “There might be something there that will provide a clue.”

We had discussed the need to make a trip to Twickenham to speak with Sir Nelson’s nephew. Brodie agreed that the circumstances of his visit and the argument that had followed was most suspicious.

“What about your visit with Mr. Hosni?” he asked.

“He appeared to be very upset by the events. Sir Nelson had helped him in so many ways, and it is difficult to believe he had anything to do with the murder of the man who sponsored him upon his arrival in England and assisted in his education here.”

“Yer woman’s instinct?” Brodie inquired.

I let that comment pass. Yet, my instinct did tell me that neither Mr. Hosni nor Howard Carter had anything to do with Sir Nelson’s murder. There was no motive.

At least none that we were aware of yet.

There was something else I wanted to discuss with Brodie. It was part of this new aspect of our relationship, and there had been no opportunity earlier as he was off in one direction and I was off in another.

I poured us both another dram of Old Lodge.

“It seems that Lily has decided that she wants to be a private inquiry agent.”

“Not an actress this week?” Brodie replied.

“She is most serious about it and you know how very intelligent and clever she is. And she has made some minor contributions in the past. She could be quite good.”

He shook his head. “’Tis not a profession for a young woman with the sort of people she’d most likely encounter.”

“It does seem as if she has made up her mind.”

“She is too young to make that sort of decision.”

“She is not a child.”

“And ye didna object? Or in the least point out that she should choose something more appropriate?”

Something more appropriate? This was not going at all well, I thought, as I took another swallow of whisky and gathered my thoughts.

“The entire purpose in bringing her to London was to provide her a better future, more opportunities other than the streets,” I pointed out.

“The purpose in bringing her to London was to provide her an education,” he continued. “The work we are called upon to do is not a better future for the girl. Best she should get her education as ye promised, then a position in a lady’s shop or as a lady’s companion,” he suggested.

Shop clerk? Lady’s companion?

Neither suited her, with her stubbornness and temper, not to mention her rather colorful background. She wouldn’t last a week in either position.

Note to myself: Choose my moments better to discuss such things or ... not at all. I chose to drop the subject. He did not.

“Or perhaps a position as a teacher or tutor, as Miss Mallory,” he added. “That would be more appropriate.”

As if that settled the matter.

I had simply wanted to inform him of the conversation as we shared other things about Lily and the boy Rory, whom he was especially fond of from another investigation. And it would perhaps have been better to let the matter rest, but I was not of a mind to do that.

“More appropriate?” I replied. “For a young woman?”

“Ye know my meanin’.”

I was afraid that I did.

“She is not like other young ladies,” I pointed out. “She has had different experiences and is quite use to making her own decisions and surviving until now quite well.”

“She will change her mind by the week next,” he pointed out.

“Perhaps, but I feel that we should support the decision she makes.”

“For work as an inquiry agent?”

“Yes, if that is what she chooses.” I felt my cheeks grow warm.

“She is not the same as yerself, and dinna look at me that way. She is young and could do much better.”

I hadn’t realized that I was looking at him that way. However, if it worked ...

“For a woman, you’re saying.”

It was a frequent topic of conversation, and the moment I said it, I knew the reaction I would get.

There was a French word I had read recently that came to mind— chauvinist .

The French had nothing over a stubborn Scot.

I slowly set my glass down as I recalled something my great aunt had once told me when dealing with certain people, most particularly a man.

“ For certain they can be most aggravating creatures. However, there are some aspects that are most pleasant. The key to it all, it would seem, my dear, is to pick your battles.”

I hadn’t intended for this to be a battle. However ...

“The train leaves from Waterloo station at ten-thirty in the morning for Twickenham,” I informed him, quite calm as I gathered my notebook and bag that I always carried.

“Aye,” he said in that distracted way, the conversation obviously at an end as far as he was concerned. He rose from the desk and removed the revolver that he always carried from the waist of his trousers, and put it in the drawer of the desk as I went to the door.

“Good night, Mr. Brodie.”

I thought better of it, for just a moment, then slammed the door.

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