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

Chapter 14

Fourteen

THE STRAND

MIKAELA

I worked late, updating the chalkboard with the new information I had, with the intention of attempting to find Sophie Marquette the next day.

I had not heard from Brodie, but in truth I had been away from the office and a telephone most of the day.

He had said that he and Munro might be gone a couple of days, attempting to track down information at Portsmouth, where Mr. Brown had indicated they might be able to locate information regarding stolen artifacts that were coming into the country.

Mr. Cavendish brought supper from the public house, for which Rupert and I were exceedingly grateful.

“You are a bit like the hound that way,” he declared. “No offense meant, miss, but he does have an appetite for Effie’s meat pies.”

Afterward, I decided to remain at the office for the night, as I had many times in the past. It was far more convenient when working on an inquiry case, and in the off chance that Brodie might call. He did not.

As the evening continued, I sat at the desk with my new typewriting machine, a smaller, much improved version that Brodie had purchased for me and had delivered to the office.

“For writing up yer notes and reports we need to provide from time to time, ” he explained in that off-hand manner that I had come to recognize was something very near shyness over something he had done for me. It was the same with the very expensive writing pen he had purchased for me, for ‘scratching away at my notes.’

“ So that yer not given to cursing when ye dinna have one with ye . I have had to explain that to more than one person.”

That particular situation had only happened once, and, admittedly, I had said a rather colorful word at the time, more at myself for leaving from the office in a hurry to be off. And now a new typewriter.

Most women, my sister included, went all misty-eyed over flowers or some confection—deep, dark chocolate in Linnie’s case.

I would take a typewriter and new pen over such things that either wilted or were consumed in a matter of days.

I pecked away for some time, then answered the door when there was a familiar scratching sound at the threshold, followed by Rupert’s distinctive baying. I opened the door and he bounded past me and immediately deposited himself in front of the coal stove.

It had become a routine for him to accompany me whenever I was out and about across the city, particularly at night. He was my personal protection service that Brodie insisted upon. That and the revolver Brodie had given me.

“God help the poor soul who comes upon ye,” he said at the time .

That was how I spent the evening, after placing a telephone call to my housekeeper at the townhouse in Mayfair to let her know that I would not be returning that night.

Mrs. Ryan had grown use to my stay-overs at the office after that first case when my sister and her daughter disappeared. It was such a deadly affair.

It was eventually solved and my sister found safe, but the tragedy of losing her own daughter made Mrs. Ryan particularly protective of me, to the extent that she even tolerated the hound on occasion.

It was very near midnight when I finished typing up my notes. I placed more coal on the stove, much to Rupert’s approval, as he briefly raised his head, groaned, and went back to sleep.

It was better than having him on the bed in the adjacent room which Brodie forbade. There was something in that particular conversation about the advantage of sharing his bed with me rather than Rupert—something about warm feet on a cold night.

I checked the lock on the door and turned off the electric, then went into the room that had become our bedroom. I removed my boots, skirt, and shirtwaist, crawled under the covers, and went to sleep listening to Rupert snoring.

I have no way of knowing what time it was as I came up out of sleep in that way that something startles one awake, and discovered that the something was the sound of Rupert, on full alert, a far different sound when he was preparing to attack.

When Brodie was away, I kept the revolver on the floor just under the edge of the bed.

It sounded as if Rupert might tear the door down as I threw back the covers, grabbed the revolver, and went into the outer office.

The hound persisted as glass in the door shattered and a hand reached through the opening and released the bolt. I raised the revolver and pulled back the hammer as the door slammed open and light from the gas lamp at the landing spilled through the doorway.

“For the love of God, Mikaela! Dinna shoot!”

I don’t know who was more startled, me or the hound, as he finally sat down.

“You might have telephoned ...” I said as I turned on the electric at the desk and laid the revolver down. I turned around and saw Munro.

He was leaning over, supported by Brodie.

“Beg pardon, miss,” he apologized, and would have fallen if Brodie hadn’t held onto him.

“The other room ...” Brodie said as he angled his shoulder under Munro’s and told him, “Just a bit further.

It took only a little more effort as he lowered Munro through the doorway and onto the bed and carefully eased him down. It was then I saw the bloodied bandage through the opening of Munro’s jacket.

I have learned working inquiry cases with Brodie to expect almost anything. I have seen dead bodies, a good share of injuries and blood. I have even been shot at.

As he once explained it, most of it was boring, some of it interesting, and at times dangerous.

It was very near ten o’clock in the morning by the time Mr. Brimley finished attending Munro.

Brodie had sent Mr. Cavendish for him as soon as they had reached the Strand, after returning to London on the overnight train from Portsmouth, a decision Brodie made rather than remain there after the attack on the street.

It was in the aftermath of their return with Mr. Brimley’s assurances that Munro would most definitely live that I had finally looked at Brodie where he stood at the foot of the bed, and discovered that he was covered in blood as well.

I have always had the ability to remain calm in the middle of a crisis, learned when I was quite young at my father’s death, a gruesome discovery that no child should experience.

I had mastered the ability to close off shock or even horror at something, and never cried. That was something our father had insisted upon, even at the death of our mother.

And there was Brodie, who somehow had the ability to break down all my defenses.

“You’re injured!” I exclaimed at the sight of yet more blood. I wasn’t certain if I was terrified or furious.

“I’m all right,” he insisted. “It’s not me. The man bled all over the both of us.”

After Mr. Brimley left with assurances that Munro would recover, Brodie had gone to the bath chamber across the landing and washed off the blood.

Afterward, Mr. Cavendish had brought breakfast from the public house.

I had dressed and sat across from Brodie as he downed a third cup of coffee, that dark gaze watching me as I waited for him to tell me what had happened.

“Ye could have been injured or worse answering the door in yer knickers,” he commented.

I pointed out that I had the revolver, and not much risk of being attacked had it been someone else at the door.

“You could have been shot breaking in,” I pointed out. “I doubt you would have made it past Rupert.”

He nodded, exhaustion in the lines at the corners of eyes.

“True enough, but I couldna manage the key and my friend at the same time without causing him more injury,” he admitted. “I’ll wager Munro appreciated the view, though he would never admit it.”

“I doubt that seeing a woman in her knickers is anything new for him,” I replied.

All things considered, Munro seeing me in my petticoat and camisole was hardly a concern. I wanted to know what had happened in Portsmouth.

“Duvalier is most definitely involved in smuggling artifacts into the country,” Brodie added as he finished explaining what they had learned in Portsmouth, that included their meeting with Campbell, and their meeting with a man by the name of Davidson.

“Do you trust this man, Davidson?”

“It’s in his interest to tell the truth.” He had also explained the new ‘business arrangement’ Munro had made with the man.

“Aye, I trust the information,” he added.

“The question is, who is Duvalier smuggling the artifacts for?” I asked.

I thought of Sir Nelson, yet that made no sense. Unless he had hoped to add pieces to the exhibit he was not able to acquire otherwise.

However, a man like Duvalier, a known smuggler, would expect to be paid for any artifacts he had smuggled into the country which Sir Nelson did not have, according to everything we had learned so far.

The long and the short of it, as Brodie had often pointed out when looking at possible motive, was that smuggling was a dangerous business, for both the smuggler and the person receiving the smuggled items.

Items might be sold out from under a prospective purchaser—contrary to the old saying that there was ‘honor among thieves.’

I suspected that honor had a price, if someone came along who offered more for something ... much like an auction. And there was always the risk that a shipment might be confiscated by the authorities. It did seem that had not happened. At the very least, not when the shipment arrived.

The shipment was obviously going somewhere after it left Portsmouth. The question was ... where?

“I thought of that,” Brodie replied. “Alex Sinclair may be able to assist with that. The Agency has access to information that could be useful.”

The Agency, specifically the Special Services Agency that we both had contact with in past inquiry cases, and not always with the most favorable results. Specifically, he had very nearly been killed during a previous inquiry case.

It was the difference between how a man or woman looked at things.

Brodie could be quite circumspect about such things. Case in point, he had survived the situation. In the aftermath, he was more careful when the agency was involved, mindful that Sir Avery often had other motives in the assistance he provided from time to time.

For myself, I had no tolerance for others’ secrets or hidden motives. As far as I was concerned, once trust was broken, it was broken, and I was done with that person.

Of course, that did present an issue when other assistance was necessary. And I did like Alex, who worked at said agency, very much. He was quite endearing with his spectacles and unruly hair, his gadgets and inventions, most particularly a coding machine that I found to be quite fascinating.

“Very well,” I stiffly replied to Brodie’s suggestion, knowing full well that he would do as he pleased. Stubborn man!

I stood before the board to make certain that I had added everything we’d learned.

“There might be something Sophie Marquette could tell us,” I suggested.

I had explained what I learned from Templeton, and suggested there might be something to learn about Duvalier from the woman.

When there was no response to my suggestion, I turned from the board.

Brodie sat at his desk, arms crossed over his chest, head slumped forward ... asleep.

So much for any objections to my calling on Sophie Marquette.

According to Templeton’s information, Sophie stayed in one of the rooms let by the theater during a production.

I was familiar with the location from a past case. It was in the theater district, not far from the Strand.

I had thought of taking the hound with me, more to ease Brodie’s concerns than anything else. However, he was not about. Undoubtedly off scavenging the local business establishments. It was a favorite pastime.

Mr. Cavendish waved down a driver and I climbed aboard. He gave me the familiar ‘fish-eye,’ as I called it, along with a frown.

“You might wait until Mr. Brodie can accompany you,” he suggested.

Dear man. He was much like a protective uncle, or at least what I thought one might be like, as I never had a protective uncle, or a protective father, for that matter.

“He knows of it,” I assured him. “It’s very near in the theater district. I won’t be long.”

That look again as I gave the driver the location at Covent Garden.

The tenant buildings on the street adjacent to the garden had once been made of red brick; however, red was a misnomer, as they were covered with the usual soot from coal fires and grime of the city, and now a dingy brown.

From the information Templeton provided, Sophie Marquette had appeared in a brief production at the Adelphi, and in a minor role at Drury Lane. She lived in the building at Number Twelve Broad Court, which was on the crescent very near the Garden as she apparently waited for her next role.

Which raised the obvious question, how much, if anything, did she know about Duvalier’s smuggling activities? I might very well be on a fool’s errand.

The driver found the building at the address and I paid him, climbed the steps to the entrance, and stepped inside the foyer

I had no room number; however, I had found in the past that there was usually a housekeeper or other person in one of the ground floor flats who collected the rents for the landlord.

“Who might you be lookin’ for?” A woman with a wash bucket and mop had appeared at a back entrance.

I explained that I was an acquaintance of Sophie Marquette and had stopped by to call on her.

“Calls herself an actress,” the woman snorted. “Seems to me she spends more time with the men. I suppose that’s entertainin’.”

“I’d like to leave a message under the door, if you could give me her room number.”

“I s’pose there’s no harm. Room number four, up the way on the second floor,” she replied. Then she added, “it’s been a busy mornin’ for her; good that she’ll be on her way. I run a respectable place here, and don’t like trouble. I wouldn’t be able to rent no rooms with the likes of her carrying on.”

Sophie Marquette had given notice that she would be leaving?

There was a bit more conversation as I made my way up to the second floor, the sort of conversation that included the woman’s miseries, issues with other tenants, and another comment about ‘theater people,’ as the door to a ground floor apartment snapped shut behind the woman.

I found the room number and would have knocked at the door. However, it was already open. Was it possible that Sophie was about to leave?

I called out, when it seemed she had not heard me.

Brodie has said in the past that I have a natural talent for crime, and not in a complimentary way. Usually a pithy comment and the certainty that I might be hiding a criminal past. I did have a penchant for finding myself in the middle of a situation. I preferred to call it curiosity.

Curiosity threw me back against the wall in the hallway as the door suddenly flew open and a man rushed past.

Another word Brodie used came to mind— reckless , and usually accompanied by a curse as I reacted instinctively and thrust out a foot. It caught the man on his boot and he stumbled. He rolled, found his footing again, lunged for the stairwell, and scrambled down.

I went after him in spite of Brodie’s warnings in the past.

He had already reached the street, as the woman I had seen earlier opened the door to her flat.

When I reached the street, the man was gone, no doubt using the traffic of trams and cabs to disappear.

Who was he? Another ‘friend’ of Sophie’s, as the matron had indicated? Duvalier perhaps?

I returned to the building and the second floor, hoping that Sophie might be persuaded to tell me who the man was.

Or not, as I entered the room and discovered Sophie Marquette’s body in the middle of the floor in a pool of blood that slowly spread across the floor.

Anything I hoped that I might learn was gone.

Brodie has said in the past that I have a peculiar nature when it came to dead things—not at all bothered by bodies or the sight of blood. I knew, of course, where it came from.

Things experienced as a young child did have a tendency to stay with one. And while the sight of a body could be startling when one came upon it unexpectedly, for me there was simply an acceptance, and an odd curiosity, as he called it. Almost as if I was detached from it.

That curiosity was there now as I spied the piece of paper that appeared just at the edge of Sophie Marquette’s gloved hand.

“Step away, miss!” The voice of authority called from the hallway.

I quickly tucked the paper inside the sleeve of my jacket, then slowly stood.

“Turn around, slowly, and show me yer hands.”

“That’s her,” the housekeeper peered around the constable’s shoulder. “That’s the one I saw.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I replied. “There was a man here when I arrived.”

“I didn’t see no one else. That’s her, officer. That’s the one came askin’ for the poor girl.”

Now it was ‘poor girl.’

“I can explain …” I would have said, but the constable cut me off.

“You can explain to the magistrate.”

I made another attempt, only to find my wrists bound in manacles.

“As I said, miss. You can explain to the magistrate. And wot is this? A revolver?”