Chapter 12
Twelve
Brodie left early from the office to meet Munro at the rail station that was to take them to Portsmouth. He had dressed the part of the common worker so as not to draw undue attention. Portsmouth was a place Munro knew well from overseeing shipments from France for my great aunt.
It was hoped they might be able to learn something about stolen artifacts. As Munro explained it, everything that went dockside in a port was well-known, legitimate or otherwise, in that way of gossip or rumor.
It was the work that went on ‘otherwise’ —in other words, smuggling—that he and Brodie were most interested in, as well as the connections for those shipments.
There were many people who thought smuggling had long been eliminated, with the Royal Coast Guard keeping watch over everything that arrived at British ports. Munro had merely laughed when I mentioned it at the time.
“It’s verra much alive and well, and very lucrative.”
I didn’t ask if it was dangerous, that went without saying, and Brodie left well-armed. Still ...
After he left, I placed a telephone call to my great aunt. She was well acquainted with the Home Secretary, I had learned from a previous case.
“Of course, dear,” she had replied . “Just give me a little time to put myself together and I will make a telephone call to Sir Henry. A meeting with the French Ambassador, you say? That would be Sir Thomas Waddington. Don’t let the title fool you, he is not a gentleman.” she added with noticeable disdain.
“You might want to make certain that you have that weapon Mr. Munro gave you.”
As for the Home Secretary, Sir Henry Matthews was a ‘very dear old friend.’
I did wonder from time to time about all those who were well-placed whom she knew, or had some influence with. It was undoubtedly one of those things best not to know.
Brodie had once exclaimed with surprise at someone else she was well-acquainted with.
“Is there anyone she doesna know? The Queen perhaps?”
I had informed him she was also well-acquainted with the Queen and the Prince of Wales. That had brought one of those typically Scottish sounds.
“And I suppose ye know them as well?”
Not all of them, I admitted at the time.
Aunt Antonia promised to return my telephone call at the town house once she was able to speak with ‘dear Henry,’ after admitting that the telephone was most convenient for such things.
“Stolen artifacts ...” she exclaimed. “This is exciting.”
That little voice inside me warned that I probably needed to have a conversation with her. This did not mean she was part of our investigation—she was merely providing information.
That could be a delicate matter, however, as she had mentioned how thrilling it was to assist us before. That conversation had included ‘how exciting it all was, and crime was so fascinating.’
Fascinating and exciting were not exactly how I would have described murder, being shot, or chasing down those who had taken my sister captive. It was often frustrating and terrifying.
After she assured me that she would prevail, I packed the bag I usually carried when on a case, locked the office, and returned to Mayfair.
I had no sooner stepped through the doorway than Mrs. Ryan informed me that my great aunt had called.
As much as I appreciated her assistance, not to mention her connections to the Home Secretary, the excitement she had conveyed to Mrs. Ryan did not bode well.
I had returned her call and she informed me that ‘ dear Henry’ had arranged an appointment for me with the French Ambassador that afternoon.
“Do remember to be careful around Sir Thomas Waddington ,” she had cautioned. “The man has a way with the ladies, but he really is such a toad. Although, should he attempt to take advantage an encounter with Mr. Brodie would be most interesting.”
I chose my clothes for the meeting with the French Ambassador as I would a business meeting with my publisher or banker, and wore my hair up. Heeding my great aunt’s warning, I tucked the knife Munro had given me inside of my right boot.
I occupied myself at my writing desk as I made entries regarding Brodie’s travel to Portsmouth, and my pending appointment with the French Ambassador.
The driver Mrs. Ryan had called for arrived in good time. I slipped my notebook with questions I had regarding Monsieur Duvalier and supposed ‘rumors’ of stolen artifacts into my bag, then set off for my appointment with Sir Thomas.
The French Embassy where he had an office was very near Knightsbridge at the entrance to Hyde Park. The flag of the French Republic waved from atop the white brick building with that entrance framed by four columns.
I was shown to the desk of the under-secretary to the Ambassador, who went to the office of Sir Thomas to announce my arrival.
I was forced to wait as I was informed that he was presently engaged in another appointment, the young man with a poor attempt at a mustache, who was the under-secretary, informed me with a hint of disdain as he spoke in French. He turned to leave.
I responded in fluent French from my school days and informed him that I did have another appointment pending—not precisely the truth, yet it did encourage him to return to the Ambassador’s office ten minutes later to inquire if he would be longer.
Arrogant, pompous young man, I thought, and he couldn’t even grow a decent mustache. I kept my smile to myself as Sir Thomas’s ‘previous appointment’ exited quite shortly, nodded to me, then left. I was promptly escorted into his office.
He rose from behind his desk in greeting, speaking in perfect English as the under-secretary. I did have a devilish thought about that title, under-secretary . Something along the line of what particular rock had the young man crawled out from under , as I turned to the ambassador in greeting.
He was a short, portly man with a bush of side whiskers that I thought always seemed to be in need of a trim on most men, thinning gray hair that he smoothed back, and beady little eyes.
My great aunt had a thought about beady eyes, something she had commented on years before. A warning actually, as she accompanied my sister and me to Paris at the beginning of our school years there.
“ Never trust a man with beady eyes. They are usually contemplating some mischief. Devious creatures, and they will lie to you.”
I had no idea the reason she singled me out for that bit of wisdom. Well, actually I did. And she had been proven correct on more than one occasion.
He was cordial as I entered his office.
“I have not previously had the pleasure, Lady Forsythe. The Home Secretary did say you needed to speak to me about a matter most urgent.”
I briefly explained the two deaths at the museum, along with the artifact that had apparently been stolen.
“Most terrible. Sir Henry did explain this to me and asked that I provide whatever assistance in finding those responsible.”
I inquired about rumors of artifacts being smuggled into the country by those less scrupulous, most particularly Edmund Duvalier. He pretended to know nothing of the man.
“It is well known by certain individuals that he arranged for a shipment in the past year that included a sarcophagus, as well as several extremely valuable funerary pieces for one of the auction houses,” I reminded him of what we had learned from Mr. Brown.
“It seems that he is well-connected, perhaps with more than one wealthy buyer.” I took a chance on the next bit of information. “It is said that one of his clients is French. And now apparently, your government is making claims on the exhibit at the museum.
“It would seem that you could hardly not know of the man. In view of the recent murders, it might very well go a long way to clearing your government of any connection to these illegal activities.”
He left his chair and rounded the desk.
“I have heard of Monsieur Duvalier’s activities,” he said in a patronizing voice. “And my government would never condone such heinous activities as murder, my dear lady.”
I cringed at his boldness. Not precisely an answer. I wanted information.
“It would go a long way to reassuring the Home Secretary that your government is not involved in this in any way, if you were able to provide information as to where Monsieur Duvalier might be found.” I pointed out.
“You are such an intriguing woman, Lady Forsythe. Such things are usually left to the inquiries of men.”
I simply smiled.
“Of course, I will see what information we have regarding Monsieur Duvalier.”
With that he crossed the office, summoned the under-secretary, and made the request in a rapid dialogue of his own language, for his ‘meddling guest’ to make certain no difficulties arose with the English.
I caught the alarmed expression at the under-secretary’s face after our previous exchange in their language. He mumbled a response, and the door was closed before he could inform the Ambassador.
“It will be done, Lady Forsythe. Before you leave, we will have the information and provide it to you.”
I rose from my chair and thanked him. From the notes I’d made, I was fairly certain, as was Brodie, that Duvalier was key to this. Now, I intended to find out for certain.
As I turned to leave, the ambassador was there, not exactly blocking me but very insistent as he ran his fingers up my arm, his intentions obvious.
“You may require more information, Lady Forsythe. Perhaps over luncheon, or a late supper.”
I was not na?ve or inexperienced to such invitations. One could not travel to foreign countries, or even about in some of the places I had found myself in London since my first inquiry case with Brodie, and not encounter such propositions.
There was always some man who thought he could ... impose himself on a woman. I was not one of those women.
“My husband seems to think there are those who would attempt to take advantage.” I explained.
“I have assured him that he need not be concerned.”
Those beady eyes gleamed.
“I always carry a revolver when I am out and about. One can never be too careful. Wouldn’t you agree, monsieur?”
“You are right, of course, Lady Forsythe. I must prepare for my next appointment, if you will excuse me.”
I smiled to myself—that did seem rather abrupt.
He opened the door and hastily reminded the under-secretary of the information I had requested.
The young man nodded and handed him a note card with information printed on the reverse side for his inspection. Sir Thomas Waddington made a somewhat hasty gesture.
“I am certain that the information is correct.” He handed me the note card and hastily bid me good day.
I thanked the under-secretary and followed him to the front entrance of the embassy building, and found a carriage nearby.
Now, to see if there was any word from Brodie or Munro.
It was very near midday when I returned to the office on the Strand, and Mr. Cavendish informed me there were no messages.
He was familiar with most areas of London, for reasons there was no need for me to know. He was a very clever fellow when it came to providing information from time to time.
The information I had received included that the last known place of residence for Monsieur Duvalier was in the company of an actress by the name of Sophie Marquette.
While my acquaintance with my good friend Templeton introduced me to others in her chosen profession from time to time, I was not familiar with a woman by that name.
However, Templeton might be some help there. It was apparent that Monsieur Duvalier did not keep his own residence, for obvious reasons.
Nor was there any message from Brodie or Munro, Mr. Cavendish informed me. Not unusual, I told myself, as I climbed the stairs to the second-floor landing and let myself into the office.
I placed a telephone call to my great aunt and thanked her for assisting with the Home Secretary, and turned down an invitation for supper.
I let Rupert in when he appeared most insistently at the door, then placed a call to the Theatre Royal Drury Lane in an attempt to reach Templeton. I was informed that she had not yet arrived for the afternoon.
I occupied myself the next several hours making entries in my notebook and at the chalkboard, should Brodie and Munro return while I was out and about on some errand.
I was finally able to reach Templeton at the theatre. She insisted that I meet her. She had the most exciting news to tell me about her next tour, and it gave me the opportunity to find out what she knew about Sophie Marquette ...
My friend had established a remarkable career for herself, I thought, as I arrived at the theatre and paid the cabman.
In the past, Templeton had toured the Continent, which included engagements in France, Spain, and Portugal, along with a brief engagement in Brazil, where she acquired Ziggy, her four-foot-long pet iguana.
Ziggy had spent a great deal of time terrorizing the audience of the theater where Templeton had performed at the time. He had eventually been sent to her country estate outside London, where he dined on roses—an enormous enclosed solarium full of them.
Templeton had also toured the United States and declared it her favorite, exclaiming that I really must consider going there. She had gone on and on about the sophistication of New York compared to the dangerous and exciting parts of the West.
In the past year, she had considered stepping away from the theatre after her current engagement at the Drury, to pursue other interests. After all, she was two years older than me, and she had to think about the future.
I did wonder whom that future might include, as she had carried on a colorful relationship with Munro for a while.
Yet, it seemed anything permanent between them was not to be, and now a new engagement had set her plans for retirement back, at least for the next year.
As I stepped through the entrance and told the attendant that Templeton was expecting me, I passed by that imposing statue of Sir William Shakespeare inside the grand foyer.
Templeton claimed to have some sort of psychic connection with his spirit. I did not necessarily believe in such things, yet there had been instances in the past when information she claimed had come from him had helped in our inquiry cases.
Coincidence? Something we would have learned in due time?
Perhaps, but I had learned from my travels and experiencing other cultures not to judge another for their beliefs.
And then there was that feeling that I’d had before, and again now, as I passed Sir William’s statue and his gaze seemed to follow me, that there might be something to it. Brodie, of course, would have denied all of it. And that, of course, included ancient Egyptian curses.
I found my friend in full stage makeup and costume, preparing for her evening performance.
“I’m to go back to the United States! We’re doing Richard III,” she excitedly told me as we sat in her dressing room.
“New York, Boston, Chicago, Denver, with several places in between, and ending with a full month in San Francisco! It’s a minor part, Queen Margaret. But I have several important scenes. Sir William has said that I will do quite well with it.”
There it was, William Shakespeare. She asked me about Brodie, which was her way of eventually asking about Munro. It did seem that there was still some interest there. I told her they were both off in the matter of our current inquiry case, which gave me the perfect opportunity to inquire about Sophie Marquette.
“She had a brief engagement at the Adelphi, but then missed several performances. I do seem to remember that she was having an affair with someone, and that may have been the cause.”
I asked if the name Duvalier was familiar, according to the information the French Ambassador had given me.
“The man was English, well-placed and educated, from what I heard,” Templeton said. “He arranged for her to stay in the country when there was some difficulty about it. I heard a few weeks ago that she left—the gossip here and about.”
“Do you know where she lived while she was here?”
She shook her head. “With her at the Adelphi, it could be one of the rooms let for performers nearby, since she stayed only a short time.”
It was more than I had when I arrived. There were only one or two places where rooms were let for actors when in London. It would take some time, but it might provide important information. It was remotely possible if I could find Sophie Marquette, I might also find Duvalier.
And then there were the inevitable questions about Munro that eventually came round to my friend inquiring if there was any woman he was presently with. I had no way of knowing, and told her that. He didn’t share that sort of information. Or with Brodie, for that matter, for which I was grateful.
“I’ll be gone on tour for several months, and it might be good to see him again before I leave,” she commented. “You know, something casual. Luncheon perhaps. Old friends?”
I thought of that mural Brodie and I had discovered in her private bedchamber at her country home during a previous case. Most colorful, and revealing. Luncheon perhaps? Casual?
And pigs fly ...