Chapter 15
Fifteen
I have experienced a great many things in my somewhat unconventional upbringing, after my great aunt brought my sister and me to live with her as children.
There are my travels, of course, that took me to many fascinating and occasionally dangerous places. There is the success of my Emma Fortescue novels.
Then there are the inquiry cases with Brodie, not the usual sort of partnership between two people, for certain. That was certainly another adventure which I had assumed would never happen in my life, as the gossip of those in polite society and the tomes of the British press had pointed out—who would possibly tolerate an often-scandalous carrying-on by a woman?
Scandalous indeed. And now arrested by the Metropolitan Police, an entirely new experience.
I sat in the room at the Bow Street Police Station with a guard at the door should I attempt to flee, desperate criminal that I was, ‘detained’ in the matter of Sophie Marquette’s murder.
Detained was such an interesting word. Not arrested precisely, nor formally charged. Yet.
It was very much like a disobedient child being denied supper and sent off to my room. Except this room was stark and dingy. There were bars on the window along with the guard at the door, and the impending arrival of someone I was not at all certain I wanted to see.
I had requested the sergeant contact the person who seemed most appropriate under the circumstances upon my arrival, so that he could explain that I was most likely not the murderer. That person was Inspector Dooley.
He had worked with Brodie in the past and was more than aware of our private inquiries on behalf of clients.
Inspector Dooley had arrived in good time and had me transferred from the holding cell I had been taken to when I arrived—another unique experience—to my present accommodation until he could contact Brodie.
I was not in complete agreement on that, considering I was fairly certain what Brodie’s reaction would be. In spite of the fact that I had demonstrated more than once that I was quite well prepared to defend myself.
I heard voices now from the hallway beyond that door that had been secured against any attempt to escape. A voice with that very familiar Scots accent.
The door was unlocked and opened by my guard, and the man belonging to that accent appeared at the doorway.
He had that expression I was familiar with, his police inspector expression, which is to say no expression at all, except for a slight frown as the constable handed him a piece of paper. My official release from police custody, I imagined.
The constable nodded then turned and disappeared down the hallway.
“Come along,” Brodie said with that same demeanor.
I might have been mistaken. but I thought I caught a hint of a smile.
I gathered my bag, which the constable who arrested me had gone through quite thoroughly and quickly discovered the revolver.
I had pointed out quite reasonably on the ride to the Bow Street station in a police van that I could hardly be the murderer as Sophie Marquette’s throat had been cut, and the only pieces of cutlery in the room were forks and spoons scattered about. The young woman had obviously not been killed with a spoon, and I was not covered in blood. For all the good it did me.
Brodie escorted me down the hallway to a desk where paperwork waited. It seemed it was quite a process to obtain my release.
“Remanded into your custody, Mr. Brodie,” the sergeant announced. “No bail required.”
Remanded into his custody?
I was certain I caught that trace of humor at the slight twitch at one corner of Brodie’s mouth. He signed the paperwork and was handed my revolver.
“It can be dangerous to carry a weapon about, particularly with a woman,” the sergeant commented. “You might want to keep it locked away, if you get my meanin’, sir.”
His meaning was quite clear as he glanced over at me.
“Aye,” Brodie replied.
We reached the street and he waved down a driver. When the cabman arrived, he opened the gate. I stepped past him and up into the cab. He took the seat beside me, and gave the driver the address of the office on the Strand.
“It is fortunate the sergeant was able to reach Mr. Dooley,” he commented. “Otherwise, the situation could have been far different and not to yer liking. The police encounter all sorts of disreputable women on the streets.”
I did my best to ignore that. He was enjoying this far too much.
“I did consider telling him to keep ye for a while.”
“I can explain,” I replied.
There was definitely amusement in that dark gaze.
“Munro was in no condition to be left alone,” I pointed out. “You had nodded off, and there was our inquiry case to attend to. I thought Sophie Marquette might be able to tell me something that could be important.”
“So,” he replied in that way that always meant there was more. “I’m responsible that you were discovered where a woman had been murdered and taken into custody by the police.”
Not precisely what I meant, yet I was more than willing to go along with that.
“You have frequently told me that time is of the essence in solving a crime,” I reminded him. “And Sophie Marquette was a known companion of Duvalier. It did seem important to speak with her to find out what she might know.”
“And wot was she able to tell ye after ye found her dead?”
More sarcasm. It did seem to be a particular characteristic of Scots. Yet, two could play this game. I retrieved the note I had found tucked inside Sophie Marquette’s glove and handed it to him.
“Wot is this?”
“It is what Sophie Marquette was able to ‘ tell me,’ even though she was already dead,” I replied with equal sarcasm.
“It’s in French.”
“So it is. Would you like me to translate it?”
He shook his head. “I dinna know the reason I put up with ye.”
I smiled. “Of course you do.”
“Och, ye are a brazen hussy. I ought to bend ye over me knee.”
“You must admit, I am quite good at finding clues.”
“That has yet to be seen. Wot does the message say?” He handed it back to me.
I smiled to myself.
“It would appear that it could be from Duvalier. It’s about meeting someone and what appears to be a location.” I frowned.
“What location?”
“Dover.” I looked up.
“It would seem that the woman was to meet Duvalier in Dover, and leave from there.”
“Two days. The housekeeper said that she had given notice that she was leaving today, and she had packed a bag.”
“Aye, two days. Apparently Duvalier planned for the shipment to be delivered, then collect his fee for it.”
The question was, where was it to be delivered and what was in the shipment?
Mr. Cavendish greeted us as we arrived at the office.
“Good to see that you’re all right, miss.”
It did seem that he was well informed regarding my ‘incarceration.’
I thanked him and knelt to scratch the hound behind the ears as he came to greet me as well.
“Mr. Brimley was here after you left, to see to Mr. Munro,” he went on to tell Brodie.
“And there was a young man a short while ago. He said it was about information you were asking about. He left a message with Mr. Munro.”
I exchanged a look with Brodie.
Was it possible Alex had been able to learn something about that shipment from Portsmouth? I quickly followed Brodie up the stairs to the office.
Munro sat at the desk. He wore a shirt of Brodie’s, loosely buttoned over the bandages that Mr. Brimley had applied. He looked none the worse for wear in spite of the injury he’d received.
There was a fire in the coal stove and a carton of food before him, no doubt from the Public House. He grimaced slightly as he made an attempt to stand. I laid a hand on his shoulder.
“There is no need to stand on my account,” I assured him.
“Good to see you, miss. None the worse for yer experience, aye?” he asked.
“It was very ... enlightening,” I replied.
“Ye should have gone out the window,” he commented with an amused expression.
I had done exactly that with Brodie in Paris on a previous inquiry case. Not something I would recommend—loose drainpipes, the French police very near, and a body in the room we hastily departed.
“I’m afraid there wasn’t time—however I did discover something that was important at the time.”
“Dinna encourage her,” Brodie commented. “It’s bad enough she was taken into custody.”
“Aye, a common criminal.” The smile on Munro’s face deepened.
“What of the information Alex Sinclair was able to find?” I asked.
“He was able to verify the shipment from Portsmouth two nights ago. The warehouseman recognized the driver and made note of the name of the company—Hodges Hauling Service, and it was signed for by the driver with initials S.T.”
“The destination?” Brodie asked.
Munro shook his head.
“S.T.?” I commented.
I saw the look that passed between Brodie and Munro.
“Whoever is behind this is moving quickly,” Brodie said.
“Aye, loose ends,” Munro commented.
“What are loose ends?” I asked.
“It would seem that whoever is behind the smuggled shipment is getting rid of those involved in order to protect himself,” Munro explained. “Loose ends. It would explain the woman’s murder.”
It was a chilling thought.
“How are we to find who is behind all of this?”
“To know the mind of a thief, ye have to think like one,” Munro explained. “And go where they go.”
“Where would a thief take a shipment of smuggled artifacts?” I asked. “It isn’t as if they can be carried about in a hat box.”
“There is one way to find out,” Brodie replied.
I followed him into the adjacent bedroom, where he changed into other clothes—those he wore when going ‘out and about’ on the street, as he called it.
The transformation was quite remarkable. It was always a surprise, how easily he moved back into that world. Except for that dark gaze under the brim of the cap he pulled on, I might not have recognized him.
“Let me help,” I told him.
He looked up after pulling on worn, scuffed boots that he refused to part with in spite of the fact they were worn through at the soles. He had refused to let me send them out to the bootmaker for repair.
“This is not fer you, and there will be no argument about it. Ye need to stay with Munro.” He touched my cheek. “Are ye worrit about that curse?”
And when I didn’t reply, there was that half smile. I reached into the pocket of my skirt and retrieved the amulet Mr. Hosni had given me.
“Please take this.” I handed to him.
“I dinna believe in curses, lass.”
Nevertheless, he took it.
I followed him back into the office where he checked his revolver and tucked it into the waist of his trousers.
Munro would have stood to go with him. Brodie shook his head.
“I’ll not have ye bleedin’ all over the place again,” he told him. “I need ye to stay here.”
Something more passed between them in Gaelic, and ended with a colorful remark from Munro. I had my suspicions of course. Possibly something about keeping an eye on me.
Brodie kissed me, a light brush of his mouth on mine.
“How long will you be?” I asked, a ridiculous question of course. There was no way of knowing. His reply?
“Take care of my friend. Send for Mr. Brimley if the bleeding starts again.”
I stared at the door after he had gone.
Afterward I went to the chalkboard and added the information we now had. Not that it was necessary, I had made notes in my notebook.
I straightened the desk, put more coal on the coal stove, and brewed another pot of coffee—the extent of my cooking skills.
“Ye are fidgetin’,” Munro commented as I set a cup before him. “Ye know as well as I do it will be a while before he returns.”
“Yes, of course.”
He was right. I knew from the cases I had been part of that it might take hours for him to locate the transport company and make his inquiries. And then ...?
“Are you comfortable?” I asked.
“Well enough, miss,” he assured me, as he sat back in Brodie’s chair.
I went to my own desk, where I might work on my next novel or type up a report on the typewriter Brodie had purchased for me.
The problem was that I had finished my last Emma Fortescue novel the week before and sent it off to James Warren, my publisher. It was a thinly disguised account of our last inquiry case. I hadn’t yet started the next episode of that very accomplished young woman’s adventures.
I ‘pecked away’ at the keys, as Brodie called it.
Emma Fortescue was not easily frightened; however, this night was different. It was the first time he had gone out alone hunting for the smugglers who had stolen the chest that contained that ancient secret.
I glanced at the clock at the wall beside Brodie’s desk. It was half-past eight of the evening ...
Three people had been murdered, with a fourth person badly injured and near death ...
My publisher was convinced that my readers were fascinated by the murder mysteries Emma Fortescue had embarked upon. The sales had been quite remarkable.
There were few clues except for those who had been murdered, two men in a most ghastly fashion, and the woman with a cryptic note found tucked in the sleeve of her jacket ...
Who could have killed them? What was in that stolen chest that was worth three lives? And now?
The bell at the landing rang furiously.
Brodie had it installed for Mr. Cavendish to announce that someone had arrived.
“Wot the devil is the man up to now?” Munro said as he came out of the chair at Brodie’s desk.
When I started toward the door, he stopped me, and shook his head as the bell continued to ring.
He retrieved the knife he always carried, then went to the door, the bell still ringing. He yanked the door.
“You can tell the fellow below to quit ringin’ the bloody bell—it’s enough to wake the dead! As for the damned dog ... he tried to take me leg off!”
“Wot the devil are ye doin’ here?” Munro demanded of the man who filled the door opening.
“I heard you were dead.”
Mr. Brown replied as casual as if he were discussing the weather, as he pushed his way into the office.
“Ye heard wrong,” Munro replied.
“Where’s Brodie?” Brown demanded.
“He’s not here.”
Brown cursed.
“Wot is it?” Munro demanded. “Wot’s happened?’