Deadly Curse (Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery #11)

Chapter 7

Seven

I have no way of knowing if Brodie attempted to follow me the night before, as I made my way to the sidewalk below the office and quickly found a cab. He did not appear at the door to the townhouse.

Nor was there a telephone call afterward, to inquire if I had arrived safely. Far better that there wasn’t, I thought, with what I would have told him regarding his comments about proper young ladies. It might very well have destroyed the telephone.

As it was, I rose early this morning and quickly dressed for the trip to Twickenham.

Mrs. Ryan was mostly silent as she provided breakfast. She was quite fond of Brodie, in spite of the fact that she was Irish and he was not.

“Was Mr. Brodie working late on a case?”

I say, mostly silent. I merely nodded and asked if she would call for a cab.

Twickenham was in the south of London, with no direct connection from Mayfair, requiring a driver for the ride to Waterloo Station.

In spite of morning traffic about the city, we made the trip to the rail station in good time.

I paid the fare and navigated the crowded station to one of the ticket windows, purchased my ticket, then made my way to the platform for my train.

I had no idea if Brodie would be there, and so be it, I thought. I was more than capable of speaking with John Sutcliffe if he was willing to meet with me.

The announcement was made for passengers to board the train, and I made my way to the gate.

“Mikaela.”

I would have recognized that voice anywhere, in spite of the clamor from the crowd of passengers that brushed past, eager to board the train. And in spite of the fact that I had convinced myself he would not be there and I did not care if he wasn’t.

“Mr. Brodie,” I stiffly replied as I presented my ticket to the attendant, and stepped into the rail car.

The trip by rail was short, with no need for a private compartment. I took a seat in the passenger car with the aisle between the rows. The car was crowded, and he took a seat a handful of rows past.

I had made my notes the night before in my notebook with information we had learned that day. I spent the duration of the rail trip, going back over them.

Brodie made no attempt to engage in conversation. The distance between would have been awkward. Yet several times I looked up to find him watching me with that dark gaze.

It was late morning when the train pulled into the rail station that served Twickenham. I put away my notebook and pen, and rose to depart the rail car. As I entered the aisle, he was there waiting for me to go before him. I quickly moved past and stepped down from the car.

Twickenham had grown from a village into a bustling town since my last visit to the country by way of the ferry on the river.

Working people with families, who could not find adequate places to live in London, chose instead to live here and travel by train to work in London proper.

It was Saturday, and, in spite of the late morning hour, those who waited at the station for the return trip to London were a mix of well-dressed couples, young families, and several young men from the local cricket club in their uniforms.

I found a station attendant and inquired about a driver. I was directed to the far end of the platform where I was told a man could be hired.

I heard a warning shout, but it came too late as a baggage cart careened wildly down a ramp toward me. There was no time to escape as it barreled toward me.

“Mikaela!”

I heard my name then a hand closed around my arm, and I was pulled out of the path of the cart as it swept past and crashed into another cart on the platform. Suitcases, valises, and a hat box scattered to the deck where I had stood only seconds before.

“Are ye all right?”

It took me a moment.

“Did it hit ye?”

“I’m all right.”

“Are ye certain?”

A station attendant rushed toward us as two porters ran past to the wreckage of the luggage cart.

“Are you all right, miss?”

I assured him, and Brodie once again, that I was all right, as the two porters righted the cart and began to retrieve the scattered bags and boxes amid passengers who had gathered round.

“I don’t know how that happened,” one of the porters commented. “I set the brake on the cart myself.”

Brodie and I exchanged a look.

“Perhaps there is something to that curse,” he commented.

I wasn’t inclined to believe in them, in spite of our earlier conversation.

“We will need a carriage,” Brodie informed the station attendant.

The man moved quickly ahead to the carriage gate and signaled a driver. I stepped up into the carriage. Brodie stepped in after and gave the driver the address I had been given for John Sutcliffe.

Brodie glanced at me from time to time, a frown on his face surrounded by that dark beard, as we rode through the town of Twickenham, past the busy marketplace where customers gathered, and streets that spread toward the Thames.

We eventually reached the Green and the driver turned down the east side that was lined with sets of two cottages separated from the next two by a narrow path.

“Number Ten,” he announced as he pulled the carriage to a stop.

Brodie stepped down and paid the fare. He asked the driver to wait. Then he returned and escorted me up the walkway to the cottage at Number Ten.

“Given wot ye learned about the last visit from his nephew, it may be a verra short meeting.”

He was right of course.

Family relationships could be most difficult, if Sir Anthony’s description of the encounter was any indication.

Brodie pulled the bell cord at the entrance to the cottage. The door was opened by a woman somewhat older than myself and obviously not a servant by the cut of her gown. She was of medium height, with dark hair pulled atop her head, grey eyes, and pleasant features.

Brodie introduced us and asked if Mr. Sutcliffe was available.

“Consultants with the police?” she repeated with a startled expression.

“What is it, Kate?”

A man approximately Brodie’s age appeared from an adjacent room. He was dressed in work clothes that were stained with dirt, a gardening implement in one hand, a perturbed expression on his face.

The woman repeated who we were.

“We’re here in the matter of yer uncle’s death,” Brodie explained.

“I have nothing to say,” he snapped, the words as blunt as that gardening tool.

“Ye made a visit to London and spoke with him two days before the ... incident,” Brodie added. “Ye may speak with us or Chief Inspector Todd of Scotland Yard.”

John Sutcliffe eventually nodded to the woman, who appeared to be his wife.

“You may ask your questions, but there is nothing I can tell you,” he tersely replied as we sat in the small tidy parlor.

“Ye made a visit to the residence of Sir Anthony Fellowes where yer uncle had been staying since his return,” Brodie recounted what we knew. “It would seem that the meeting was not cordial.”

“What are you saying?” Sutcliffe demanded. He was now on his feet and paced across the room to the stone hearth.

I added the rest of what Sir Fellowes had told us. “We were told that you made a certain request that he turned down,”

“That is correct,” he replied almost defiantly. “A reasonable request, but he adamantly refused!”

“John?”

He turned as an older woman entered the room. She was of average height, yet there was a resemblance in the eyes and mouth to the man I had met on my first trip to Egypt.

John Sutcliffe explained who we were and the reason we were there.

“It is in the matter of his death.”

The transformation was immediate in the look that came into her eyes, her mouth taut.

“What do you want?” she spat out. “You see how we live when we once had a fine house in London. But my brother sold it, sold all of it to pay for his expeditions. Our father was respected. We were from an old family. We should be living in London.”

When her son attempted to excuse her, she refused to be quieted.

“My son is a respected teacher and works very hard, yet he has been forced to beggar himself to my brother in order that we might live a little bit more comfortably!”

“Mother ...”

She again refused to be silenced. “My brother is dead! And I am happy for it. No more humiliation, no more begging for what should have been mine.”

She was hardly finished. “As for any arrangements to be made? He can rot in the street!”

“Mother, dear,” John’s wife had appeared and went to her mother-in-law. “Do come away.” She looked to her husband with a pleading expression.

“I will not be silenced nor apologize,” the embittered woman announced. “My brother is dead and I am glad for it. My only regret is that it was not sooner.”

With that, Sir Nelson’s sister swept from the room, her daughter-in-law in her wake.

“Ye were at the museum the morning the new exhibit was to open?” Brodie commented, in that way I had seen before as he left the obvious question unspoken and waited.

Sutcliffe’s head came up, his expression taut, barely restrained. Would he deny it?

“I was there,” he replied almost defiantly. “Yet, I was not allowed into the exhibit hall. I was told that was for invited guests only!”

“Did you see Sir Nelson that morning?” I inquired.

“I have already explained that I was not allowed inside the exhibit, Lady Forsythe,” he repeated in a scathing tone. “Is this how you amuse yourself? A lady of position and obvious means.”

“Be very careful, sir,” Brodie reminded him, the warning less than subtle.

“I was acquainted with Sir Nelson Lawrence and simply wish to assist in finding the person responsible.”

“Title and wealth, patronizing those less fortunate,” he replied, undaunted by Brodie’s warning.

“You will leave now.” He turned to escort us to the door. “As you see, we live simply. We cannot afford appropriate arrangements.” He was most adamant. “Nor do we have any care for it. He is dead. You have my mother’s reply.”

Our meeting was obviously at an end.

“That was most enlightening,” I commented. “At least we won’t have to wait for a carriage.”

The meeting with John Sutcliffe had been brief but quite revealing.

“He was there the day of the opening of the exhibit, after that nasty confrontation with Sir Nelson,” I commented as we returned to center of town as there were at least two hours until the next train returned to central London.

We found a public house that had once been a coaching inn very near the railway station. They were serving the midday meal along with several varieties of beer. A woman with an apron, who obviously worked there, greeted us and showed us to a table.

She was young and most cordial.

“Travelin’ through, are you? We get a lot of people from the rail station.” She then went on to tell us what was available. “We have ham and beans or chicken in the pot with vegetables. What will you have?”

We both chose the chicken and ale to drink.

Brodie was most quiet and thoughtful as we waited, while I took out my notebook and pen and made notes regarding our meeting with John Sutcliffe.

“It would certainly seem that he, Sir Nelson’s nephew, had a motive,” I commented as the food arrived. “His sister as well.”

“Aye, perhaps.”

“You’re doubtful.”

“The man obviously had enormous resentment against Sir Nelson, and the sister as well. Yet there is the matter of access the morning the exhibit was to open,” he pointed out.

I saw his point. “Is it possible that someone else acted on Sutcliffe’s behalf?”

“Anything is possible,” Brodie conceded. “However, ye saw how the man lives on a teacher’s pay.”

I was not convinced. I knew how strong resentment could be. Brodie as well, for that matter.

We finished eating, and Brodie paid for the meal. We then walked the short distance to the rail station. We didn’t have long to wait, as the early afternoon train arrived and we boarded.

This time of the afternoon the rail car was hardly crowded. There were no more than a dozen other passengers, spread throughout.

We found two seats opposite across the aisle near the door to the car, other passengers scattered throughout, including a woman and her young son, a man in a plain suit who wore glasses who might have been a bookkeeper, and a young woman in the usual attire of a maid. The train soon pulled out from the station toward central London.

“It might be useful to learn if Mr. Sutcliffe had any pressing debts,” I commented.

“Aye, perhaps,” he replied, continuing to watch the woman with the young boy.

He was thoughtful for the longest time, and it seemed that the silence of the evening before continued.

“The boy reminds me of Rory,” I commented.

“Aye.”

“Not so much in his appearance, of course, for all that Rory has red hair, but more in his manner, unable to sit still, asking dozens of questions,” I added. “I would imagine that he is quite a handful, and perhaps stubborn.”

“Determined to have his way,” Brodie replied.

Was he speaking of the boy we both watched, or Rory Matthews?

I knew that days earlier, he had been to visit Rory, the boy orphaned in one of our previous cases.

Brodie had reason to believe the boy might be his. After that dreadful case, Rory lived with his grandmother, Lady Matthews. She encouraged the bond between them. I had no objections after my own childhood experiences. I knew only too well the sadness of loss, and the anger left behind.

Brodie continued to watch the young woman and the boy.

“He is hardly a boy now, although he acts as one,” he quietly commented.

There was a faint smile at his mouth as the boy in our rail car left his seat and approached the man with the glasses and began to ask questions. Quite inquisitive it seemed. His mother’s expression suggested it might be a frequent occurrence.

“It seems a decision must be made about his schooling,” Brodie said. “He is an intelligent lad, and Lady Matthews was thinking of one of those private schools and then university.”

“He is very fortunate,” I replied. “She does seem to want what is best for him.”

“It seems the lad is not of the same mind.”

He had not spoken of any difficulty in that regard. I did wonder what the difficulty might be.

“He wants to be a pirate or perhaps a police constable?” I suggested with more than a little humor.

He was quietly thoughtful for the longest time.

“It seems that he wants to attend an academy, one of those private military schools.”

Not exactly training to be a pirate, if there was such a thing, which I doubted. And obviously not a place where young men trained to be a police constable.

“He is most insistent.”

There had obviously been a conversation about it. As I knew well, a private military academy often led one into the Queen’s service.

“I explained that it was not for him, that he should do as his grandmother wanted and look to entering university when the time comes,” Brodie continued. “It would provide him with an acceptable profession.”

Now where had I heard that before?

“Acceptable?”

“Aye, perhaps a physician, lawyer, or businessman.”

“Or a teacher, tutor, or lady’s companion for a young woman?” It was too irresistible, considering our recent conversation.

He looked at me sharply. “It is not the same for a young man who must be able to support himself and perhaps a family one day.”

“What of a young woman who is determined to make her way and support herself, rather than being dependent on someone else for her existence? We have seen too much of that in our past cases.”

“It is not the same. And dinna look at me that way.”

“It is the same. You want what is best for Rory,” I pointed out. “It would seem however, that no matter what you might want, he will have his way.”

I was not without sympathy.

Brodie had grown up on the streets after the death of his mother, surviving on the streets by whatever means necessary.

He wanted something better for Rory. It was understandable, and ironic that he should now be faced with a willful boy who was determined to make his own decisions even if Brodie disagreed.

“He took your advice in the matter?”

That dark gaze met mine. “He did not,” he replied, somewhat tight-lipped

It did seem the shoe, or the boot in this case, did not fit particularly well. It did, however, explain our conversation the previous evening.

“The lad is being stubborn. He said that he would enter the military academy or not at all.”

Stubborn, determined to have his own way in the matter?

“It does seem as if you are at an impasse,” I replied, and added, “Not unlike Lily’s aspirations to become part of our inquiries when she completes her studies.”

That did explain his adamant response that she must choose something more appropriate for a young woman.

That dark gaze narrowed. “I know wot ye are doing. Ye have a devious way about ye, Mikaela Forsythe.”

There were times when it took time for a stubborn, old-fashioned Scot to come around.

“Then you will support his choice.” I concluded the obvious. “And Lily’s as well.”

“Do I have a choice in the matter?”

I smiled to myself. Not at all.

We arrived back at Waterloo station in good time, and made the trip back to the office on the Strand by cab.

Mr. Cavendish met us with some urgency at the sidewalk when we reached the office on the Strand.

“Mr. Dooley sent round a man earlier, said you were to contact him when you returned.”

“Has something happened?” I inquired.

“He didn’t say, only that it was important.”

Brodie and I immediately climbed the stairs to the office, and he placed a telephone call to Bow Street.

Urgent indeed. Mr. Dooley asked us to meet him at the director’s office at the museum straight away.