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

Chapter 18

Eighteen

It was very near break of day when I heard the door to the office open, and looked up from where I had fallen asleep at Brodie’s desk, keeping watch until I could no longer keep my eyes open.

It must have been the whisky. Not to mention that brawl with smugglers, the fire on that narrow island with that abandoned watchtower, and that frantic escape through the streets of London like common criminals.

I still wore clothes from the night before, too exhausted to worry or care, as I insisted that Munro have the bed.

He had argued, and then he hadn’t, snoring slightly as I had put more coal on the fire.

And now Brodie was here, smudged with soot and other things that had not been there before, and an expression I had seen at the end of other cases—exhaustion amid the grim reality of death, and I knew without needing to ask.

There was a shadow behind him with a familiar face—Alex Sinclair from the Agency.

That explained a great deal. At the island, Brodie had said he wasn’t alone.

Alex, dear young man, with his glasses, that shock of hair that constantly fell over his forehead, his inventions, and obviously a penchant for danger.

He smiled a little shyly in greeting. “I have a new automatic weapon. It worked quite well. It was a spectacular night, Lady Forsythe,” he added with enthusiasm, albeit with a bit of confusion as he looked at me and shyly looked away.

“Smugglers and pirates!” he went on. “And it was as if the whole island was afire. You should have been there.”

I nodded with a faint smile.

“On yer way,” Brodie told him. “And me thanks.”

That grin was still there as Alex nodded, bid us both good day, closed the door, and disappeared to the street below.

Brodie smelled of smoke, although whether from the fire on the island or gunpowder it was hard to know.

I went to him, half expecting a lecture. There was none. That would undoubtedly come later.

Or perhaps not, as he lowered his head next to mine, and I felt the weariness as he leaned into me.

“Munro?” he asked.

“Well enough,” Munro said, from the doorway to the adjacent room where he had spent the past few hours after more whisky.

“Ye’ll live?” Brodie commented to his friend.

“Aye, and saved yer life again,” Munro said. “I’m for Sussex Square, where a man isna bothered by troublesome women, and can get some sleep.” There was a nod between the old friends that I had seen before.

It was debatable who had saved whose life, but I was not one to argue.

“Good day to the both of ye,” Munro said, and then he too was gone.

Brodie’s breath was warm against the curve of my neck. His arms tightened round me.

“Ye smell of smoke and whisky, and yerself,” he said as he brushed back my hair, buried his face into my shoulder, and simply held on to me before pressing a kiss on my neck.

“And yer covered in soot and grime ... and blood?”

I assured him it was from changing Munro’s bandage.

“Yer a grimy baggage, Lady Forsythe. But I’ll take ye anyway.”

I would have thought it impossible after the night before, exhausted as he must be. He bent down, slipped an arm under my knees, and picked me up. I was not one for such overly romantic gestures that were written about in other novels. However, I would make an exception—or two or three.

“There is one thing,” he said as I rested my head against his shoulder and he carried me into that adjacent room.

“Take off yer boots, and dinna wake me for a week or two.”

It would be easy enough to say the case was solved. Yet it never was quite that easy. There were so many pieces after that night on the island that still didn’t seem to fit.

Yet, as Brodie, who had once been an inspector with the Metropolitan Police and quite accustomed to such things often reminded me ... they were there. It was just a matter of patience, and they began to fall into place.

Motive, means, and opportunity, I thought, as I stared at the chalkboard with the additional notes I had added after that night. They were there as well, a sad, horrifying, and pathetic circumstance that had taken lives and reputations, and very nearly caused an international incident as it played out.

The boat Brodie had followed that night from the island with the assistance of Alex Sinclair and the Agency, put up at Charing Cross pier, where a hired coach waited.

Brodie made light of it afterward. A chase had ensued that made my somewhat frantic ride with Munro and Mr. Brown’s men through the streets to the Strand seem like a stroll in the park.

It led from the pier past Parliament to St. James, and to the edge of Grosvenor Square and a stately residence.

Caught and unable to escape after having fled to the columned residence amidst other residences of government officials, barristers, and other respected families, two men were seen in what was an obvious quarrel at the second-floor windows.

As Brodie and others from the Agency attempted to enter, a fire broke out on the second floor and quickly sped, engulfing the entire residence.

The fire brigade arrived, but were turned back, their best efforts required to protect other nearby homes as flames shot into the air.

In the late hours of the day after, the residence had been reduced to ash, charred sandstone, and two bodies that were barely recognizable.

Little else remained except for a rare Egyptian funerary mask found in the wine cellar that suffered only minimal damage, along with a wooden box with ancient Egyptian carvings.

The residence had belonged to Sir Anthony Fellowes, and yet another piece fell into place. His charred body was one that was found, the other presumably that of the smuggler, Duvalier. Though it was impossible to know for certain.

It only raised more questions, which were answered in the days that followed, as Brodie and I accompanied Alex and others from the Agency to the warehouse where I had last spoken with Sir Anthony.

There, in a sub-floor chamber that might never have been discovered if not for that night on the island, a horde of other Egyptian artifacts were discovered.

An international incident arose over the stolen antiquities, followed by that demand the Egyptian counsel had made for all artifacts to be returned. He had submitted a document Sir Nelson had signed, for the ‘ loan ’ of the items in the exhibit at the museum, with everything to be returned once the exhibit closed.

The discovery of that stolen shipment aboard the steamship after Sir Anthony fled the island, along with the horde hidden at the warehouse, ignited a furor over claimants to the artifacts.

Egypt was a Crown colony, yet Britain’s presence there required a delicate balancing act, as I had witnessed on my earlier travels.

As for Sir Anthony Fellowes’ motive?

That close friendship from their school days had waned considerably as Sir Nelson received accolades from many academics and royal patrons, as well as financial backing for his next trip back to Egypt. Another piece discovered, as a university fellow who read the account in the dailies, came forward to mourn the deaths of his colleagues.

He spoke of the fierce competitiveness on the part of Sir Anthony Fellowes. It seemed that envy over the years fed his bitterness, and apparently led to the murder of Sir Nelson and Mr. Hosni over the accolades which Fellowes felt might have been his.

Greed and envy led him to an encounter with a man who worked at the museum—a man with a limp in his left leg, and the same man who had attacked me and taken the wooden box from the exhibit, and then died on the island.

Duvalier’s part in all of it was that of procurer, simply stated: a smuggler with connections in vast parts of Europe and a network of thieves who lived in the shadows but were skilled at acquiring valuable works of art and ancient artifacts for a price.

He had the ability and the skill to bring a shipment out of Egypt to private buyers in London, including that smuggled shipment Brodie and Munro had followed from Portsmouth.

It did seem that Sophie Marquette was an innocent victim in all of this, except for the poor choice of Duvalier. They were to have met at Dover after he completed his latest ‘business’ transaction, according to that note I found. In a small way, I felt sorry for her.

Mr. Brown had played his part as well and would undoubtedly want to collect on that favor owed; however, that was a piece in all of this best left for another time. Considering the man’s reputation, it was not a comforting thought. Still, I had to admit, somewhat grudgingly, that he had provided both valuable information and assistance that might have ended far differently.

John Sutcliffe was sent word of his uncle’s death and subsequent funeral. There was no response.

It was sad that his relationship with his uncle, who was a very fine man, had been reduced to monetary value.

With the experience that I gained over the past three years since that first inquiry case with Brodie, and from my own personal history, I knew there were some things that could never be resolved.

One simply had to live with them and move on, as my great aunt had once told me. Obsessing over a thing that was over and done was a senseless waste of one’s time.

“I live by that,” she said at the time. “As far as anyone knows, we only have so much time in this life, and none of it should be wasted on things that cannot be changed. Although ,” she had added, “I do have plans on returning after I’m gone from this life. Perhaps as a sea otter. They are marvelous little creatures, quite jolly and carefree.”

Anyone else who heard the conversation at the time would undoubtedly have decided that she was becoming quite dotty, yet I knew different, and had spent the past years since she took my sister and me to live with her, attempting to follow by example. It was something that flummoxed Brodie from time to time.

“ Ye are just like her. I dinna know if the world is safe .”

Other pieces in our investigation came together. New lists were made of artifacts discovered in that hidden room below the warehouse, along with those found aboard the boat that Duvalier had used to smuggle in that shipment from Portsmouth.

There were dozens of statues, gold-inlaid bowls, Coptic jars, funerary masks, and jewelry that were to be displayed in the exhibit. The Egyptian counsel had already submitted a written request that it was all to be returned, along with the original artifacts Sir Nelson had found and collected.

I was as fascinated and intrigued by those ancient artifacts as so many others were. Yet, I felt a certain sadness as I had on one of my travels to Egypt, when I had watched artifacts like those in the exhibit, collected from ancient burial sites, then sold in marketplaces and carried aboard ship for a journey to another country, to be put on display like trophies.

The Egyptian counsel had made several more appeals that were being considered. I, for one, thought all of the artifacts should be returned, most particularly funerary relics.

As for that small wooden box with those ancient carvings found with other artifacts in that room under the warehouse floor, it somehow mysteriously disappeared amid the arguing and confusion over the ownership of the artifacts.

“Ye are a thief,” Brodie exclaimed when he discovered the box in the office on the Strand.

That did seem a bit like splitting hairs, given his somewhat colorful past.

“A simple wooden box,” I pointed out. “I am simply returning it to the rightful owner, since no one seems capable of making a decision about the artifacts. And you have never taken something?”

“It’s a different thing when a child is starving to death,” he replied with a frown.

“A coin pinched when said child is running numbers for a local gambling club?” I inquired of one of the stories from that childhood. “Or perhaps a gentleman’s watch lifted from his pocket?”

“That was a long time ago, and ye know better.” He made a sound. “My wife is a thief.”

“I do believe in keeping things in the family,” I replied, which brought another typically Scottish sound I had become quite familiar with.

I had placed a telephone call to my great aunt at Sussex Square. She knew a great many people, including the English Ambassador to Egypt, who was presently in England and had found himself swept up in the issue over the stolen artifacts.

“Of course, dear. I shall send round a message to Sidney and have him arrange a meeting for you with the Egyptian counsel.”

Easily said and done. There were times when I did question who was actually Queen of England.

Not surprisingly, the meeting was arranged very soon after. Brodie made no comment as I set off for that meeting with that carved cedar box in my travel bag.

Adnan Sharif was the official counsel from his country to the Court of St. James. Through him, delicate and often politically fraught issues as a Crown colony were brought, and resolution attempted.

He was an older man, who had been educated in England and had returned to Egypt in the years after. He had no official office, but met diplomats and other officials at his residence in Kensington.

He was said to be highly intelligent, shrewd, and a master in the art of negotiation.

We had never met, but I had heard of him through my great aunt.

“ A handsome devil ,” she declared. “And said to be from one of the richest families in Egypt.”

His residence, I discovered, in spite of the fact that he held no formal title, was very much like an embassy, with an arched entrance, and an attendant in traditional Egyptian attire who rose from a desk and bowed his head in greeting.

The Counsel Sharif had agreed to meet with me through a written message to Aunt Antonia.

He rose from behind his own desk as his secretary, also in traditional Egyptian attire that men wore, made him aware that I had arrived.

Instead of the long white thawb and traditional headdress his attendants wore, he wore a suit of clothes that an English gentleman might have worn. He bowed his head in greeting and I thanked him for meeting with me.

“Lady Forsythe, you are most welcome. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

I was familiar with the Egyptian language and accent, along with that reserved demeanor, from past encounters on my travels. The Counsel was polite and articulate, yet I sensed that shrewdness my great aunt had spoken of.

“I was somewhat surprised by Lady Montgomery’s request, considering the present difficult situation between our two countries regarding stolen Egyptian artifacts,” he said as he returned to his chair behind the desk. I took the chair opposite as his assistant remained beside the door, silent but watchful.

Two countries.

It was not lost on me that the Counsel referred to Egypt as a separate country, even after past conflicts with Britain, a war, and now that protective status.

I explained that I was there with the hope of perhaps easing that difficulty between the two in some small way.

“How might that be?” he politely responded.

As I stood and reached for my travel bag on the floor, I caught the sudden movement from his assistant. The Counsel shook his head and waved him back. It was a reminder that although he might be welcomed by the British government, there might be dangers, those who promoted conflict.

I placed the bag on the chair, then retrieved the cedar box that I had ‘appropriated’ from the artifacts that were discovered in Sir Anthony’s possession. I set it on the desk before Counsel Sharif.

In spite of that reserved demeanor when I had first arrived, I noticed the way his eyes sharpened.

“This was originally displayed at the museum,” I explained. “It was among the artifacts Sir Nelson had brought back for the exhibit.”

That dark gaze was fastened on the box.

“I don’t know what the markings mean, but it is apparently of some importance.”

Counsel Sharif looked up. He reached across the desk for the box.

“It is very old,” he said as he gently held the cedar box. “The markings on the box are for protection for what it contains.” He gently set the box back on the desk, and almost reverently lifted the gold clasp that secured the lid.

He sat back in his desk chair with a startled expression.

“It is over two thousand years old and was thought to be lost forever,” he said as he gazed at the contents, then carefully removed what appeared to be a scroll.

With equal care he set it on the desk beside the box. It appeared to be made of papyrus wrapped around a small cedar staff.

He bowed his head and whispered in that ancient language. His assistant did the same. Counsel Sharif looked up.

“You must forgive me. You could not have known. It is only that this is of far more value to my people than gold.”

He explained that it was an ancient ‘manuscript’ of magical spells and prayers, written by priests centuries before to accompany the dead into the afterlife.

Stories about the scroll had been handed down through those centuries, but it was thought the scroll was lost to the sands of time.

He smiled for the first time.

“It is with some irony that it was found by those who have taken so much from my people, and that you have now returned it.

“I must believe that the words carved on the box have protected the scroll all this time.”

“Much like an amulet?” I said, and explained that Mr. Hosni had given me his own for protection.

I had carried it the entire time we searched for that smuggled cargo, and still did so. I retrieved it from the pocket of my gown.

When I would have given it to Counsel Sharif as well, he held up a hand.

“It was given for protection. You must keep it; it kept you safe and guided you to find the box.”

I wasn’t certain that I believed in such things, although my friend, Templeton, would have argued that.

“Will there be difficulty for you because you brought me this?” he asked as I stood to leave.

Brodie had called me a thief, if a well-intentioned one. I looked upon it differently.

“I simply honored Sir Nelson’s agreement that the artifacts were to be returned No one specified when that might be done,” I replied and then left.

Afterward, I returned to the office on the Strand.

In the days that followed, the pieces were all finally there. I sat at my typing machine, pecking away, as Brodie called it. There was that report of our inquiry, which Sir Avery with the Agency insisted upon. Even though Brodie had met with him several times to ‘brief’ him, as he called it, on the developments of the case.

There had been quite a stir in the dailies about the smuggled artifacts, following Sir Nelson’s murder. It had included mention of the arrest of a ‘certain prominent person of notable family’ in the matter in an article written by Theodolphus Burke with the Times of London.

Although no names were mentioned—I was waiting for ‘the other shoe to drop,’ something my friend Templeton had said once from her travels to New York when on tour. It did seem most appropriate.

Burke—I refused to dignify the man by calling him Mr. Burke—had the reputation for name dropping, salacious gossip, and dropping carefully edited information that failed to mention actual details, merely to cause a sensation.

Not that I was concerned in the matter. It was simply irritating that such a man considered himself a journalist, with his sly habits meant to increase his journalistic standing, not to mention the readership of the Times.

Over luncheon recently with Templeton, she had suggested contacting Mr. Shakespeare in the matter.

“He is quite fond of you, you know.”

I didn’t and was highly suspicious what that might mean.

“I have discovered that he has very unusual ways of expressing himself,” she continued. “Have I mentioned that my fellow actor, Mr. Price, who cannot act his way out of a bag, has recently found himself with a debilitating injury? It seems that his understudy—a delicious young man—will be replacing him.” And she smiled.

Brodie simply shook his head when I told him about it.

“The woman is addled, and Munro is well rid of her.”

She might well be, but she was a dear friend, and I wasn’t as certain that Munro was well rid of her, or the way round.

Our report had been submitted to Sir Avery at the Agency, and there had been additional meetings which I handily avoided. The less involvement with the Agency, the better, as far as I was concerned. Yet, I had my suspicions on that.

As the furor over Sir Nelson’s murder lessened and life settled back into what I considered normal, Brodie and I made plans to close the office and escape north to Scotland.

There were rumblings of influenza as the weather warmed, confirmed by Mr. Brimley. Aunt Antonia had already departed with most of her household, which included Munro, who had fully recovered.

I had asked Mrs. Ryan if she cared to accompany us.

“The place full of Scots?” she had exclaimed and promptly departed for a visit with her sister’s family ‘just over the way’ in Ireland. I didn’t bother to tell her that a good part of Ireland had been settled by Scots in the past.

Mr. Cavendish had scoffed at the idea of leaving for a time. Where would he go? He had been to many ports in his time at sea, exposed to all sorts of ‘miseries,’ as he called them, and saw no reason to leave. And there was a reason to remain, to watch over the office with the hound and keep an eye on a particular woman at the Public House.

With arrangements more or less made for our pending departure, I had met with James Warren, my publisher, who also happened to be my brother-in-law.

He and Linnie were soon departing for Brighton for a few weeks. He was seeing to last details for the publishing house.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, something I was familiar with, over coffee at the Grand Hotel very near the rail station that would take Brodie and me to Inverness and on to Old Lodge in the next few days.

“Your Emma books,” as he called them, referring to my novels with my heroine Emma Fortescue. “They have been extraordinarily successful. Far more so than anyone’s expectations. And the last one with that bit of a mystery that you had her go off and solve, the sales have been quite astounding.

“It does seem as if your readers are eager for more mystery and murder, far different than the bare statistics they read in the crime sheets.

“I know you have little time for taking yourself off on your foreign adventures with the inquiry cases you take with Mr. Brodie. Yet, Emma Fortescue is such a fascinating character, and those self-defense moves you write about fascinate readers.

“Have you considered writing another mystery? Perhaps a series of them?”